Punk Story

by Neil Rowland

  Snot took my comment shrewdly. Even if he kept up the diffident front, I don’t believe he disregarded it. Suddenly we experienced a surge of sympathy, like John Cale playing a deafening chord during his ‘terrorist’ period.

  Even our families were surprised by this new camaraderie. Not that our parents ever mixed, just nodding at each other across driveways. Stan coming out as a punk was the big event, like Masai kids with lions or Laurie Lee walking off to Spain.

  Nulton Arts didn’t have a rehearsal room available. Stan couldn’t fully explain why a punk group had to rehearse. Whatever sounds came out of that garage, the neighbours heard too clearly. One Sunday, in response to complaints, the ‘musicians’ were forced to play without any amplification. It was ridiculous, after a police patrol had come to imposed restrictions. Even without amplification residents were alarmed by Nutcase’s howls, reaching them over the Sunday dinner table. The cops had already served Stan with an official caution after his college concert. The Principle wanker had considered it generous not to press charges. A ban was imposed on Mortal Wound ‘performances’.

  Even Dougal at the Dragon was concerned about his licence, and therefore afraid to promote the lads.

  Marty went into overdrive to organise secret gigs, under the disguised moniker of The Jon Whitmore Group - or the JWG as they became known. Marty’s cunning plan was to change their style to evade the local live ban. He argued that publicans were ready to hire groups because the live scene was taking off. After the little controversy had died down, according to Gorran, the group could emerge as Mortal again to much acclaim. Sadly this didn’t turn out to be one of Marty’s greatest brainwaves.

  Marty instructed Nutcase to arrive late for the JWG gigs. The vocalist refused to shave off his Mohican cut; and he didn’t have the technique to change his singing style. The way around was for the vocalist to arrive last moment, even joining the others after they had started playing. We knew that he was a gentle Mohican, but the punters didn’t. He’d never want to put a tomahawk into anybody’s skull. But people out enjoying a few drinks were not to understand that. When that massive bloke, with an enormous green Mohican sprouting from his head, jumped up on the improvised stage and began to leap about, they usually panicked.

  So Marty’s plan was for JWG to play small gigs, build a reputation and make money for new equipment. After that they could triumphantly return to the circuit as Mortal Wound. The punk-meister’s plan was to play cover versions and keep the volume down. This was the punk era. It was never going to work. Of course publicans read the local paper and knew about Mortal, even if JWG was designed to be as lifeless as the snooker table.

  The band sat with Marty to agree on a set list in advance, consisting of old glam rock numbers and a few classic hits for stiffs. Desperado, Bridge Over Troubled Water, or Money, Money, Money, stick in my head as the most alarming examples. Some nights the band smuggled a few old Mortal favourites into the repertoire - engineered down. Few punters ears could endure Nutcase’s version of the pop archive. Hardly anyone could get through Nut’s interpretation of Sweet’s Ballroom Blitz. At first people were laughing into their beers or Babyshams. Within a couple of minutes they were more uncomfortable, even hot and bothered. After a couple of songs people were fully intimidated and began running out to the car park. For pub owners that wasn’t the idea of a successful ‘live music’ night.

  JWG never got a repeat booking. Eventually their reputation went before them. No venue would touch them. When punks began to turn up as well, knowing it was really Mortal doing secret gigs (however bland the style) that was the final coffin nail. JWG wasn’t able to keep any audience happy or even, crucially, the group itself.

  Stan had a family baptism, a wedding and two funerals to go to. His parents suggested that he get his ‘nice group’ to play at his cousin’s wedding reception. We didn’t think that was a good idea.

  Marty soon realised how dire it was. All that promotional hype didn’t go down well. There was no sign of a PR breakthrough for JWG. On top of this, Marty hated the music. There was that complex pain and regret on his expressive mug. He’d be propped on a stool at the bar, smirking out with intense discomfort at the sound, wincing and squinting through dense cigarette smoke.

  Therefore he had to intervene again to change the course of rock n roll history.

  7. Enter the Heroine

  Word on the grapevine was that Mortal had split. Not even the thought of winning Nulton’s first ever ‘Battle of the Bands’ competition, with a massive prize and tour, could hold them together.

  Marty proved his mettle by finding the group a new rehearsal space. The mogul booked them a block at Crock Sound Studios. This music facility was owned by Dave’s son, Troy, based in a row of converted old houses. It offered the facilities of an eighteen track recording studio; handy if Mortal should ever cut a debut 45.

  Asking a favour from Troy Crock was always a risky dice throw. Junior Crock owned a portfolio of small enterprises in the town. Like his dad these were focussed around the entertainment industry, including a mucky magazine outlet. Troy was doing all right, going by the big family house he’d purchased recently; in a nice new suburb, more like a suburb of the suburbs. His wife ran a growing chain of ladies’ hairdressing salons. It was a method of money laundering, or giving it a shampoo and blow-dry. Troy taught his missus the tricks of running businesses.

  In appearance Crock junior was this fleshy, heavy-set, raw-wired thug, dripping in gold and silver, and sports watches the price of the average semi. His low-angled forehead ended between his eyebrows and you could have driven a golf ball from the top of his shaven head. We’re going to bump into him later in the story.

  Our Mortal musicians assembled that Sunday for a first proper band practice. They were relieved to resume their real moniker, after dropping JWG and that short-lived career as an inept covers band. Billy Urine was the only lad who’d ever been in a studio or a rehearsal room. They benefited from having a trained engineer on hand, to set them up. This long-fringed guy put them on track, when faced with a jungle of dials, sockets and sliders, not to mention windows, wires and microphones.

  Not standing on ceremony Herb and Stan were late. Herb took ages at home to prepare his costume and coiffure, fancying himself as Bowie or Ronson or Ferry. On the best of days Stan had problems waking up ‘early’. He was non-aggressive character, except with alarm clocks. This developed after he’d been expelled and lost his job; aggravated by a new rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle. Over the Saturday night he’d been down to London, for a punk night at the Rock Garden. So Stan only returned to Nulton in the small hours by sneaking on the post train. In those days rail services halted before midnight. And there was only a Wimpy bar still open, offering a piss-weak tea and a greasy burger ‘til dawn. Consequently he rolled up bleary eyed, dishevelled and moody, and having to borrow a guitar.

  Anna-kissed had brought a girlfriend of hers to the session. It wasn’t so unusual, I later realised, for musicians to bring groups of hangers-on and admirers. The tendency was all part of the general ambience of self-absorption and congratulation. This particular friend though - who’d attended the same girls-only school - was a musician; a real one that is. After introducing herself, with deep blushes even through pancake makeup, she showed them an expensive Fender guitar and even a new little Roland keyboard and created artistic panic.

  ‘What’re you gonna do with that thing?’ Snot demanded.

  The girl took in the enigmatic hunched lad, for the first time. ‘What do you want me to do with it?’

  There was unrestrained laughter and horse-play between the others.

  ‘Whatever, you’re not playing that thing.’

  ‘You got something against keyboards?’ she challenged him.

  ‘Too right, we do. Get it straight.’

  ‘Maybe some keyboards will fit into your sound.’

 
‘Bollocks. Put it away.’

  ‘All right, don’t blow up.’

  ‘Blow up that keyboard,’ Snot suggested.

  ‘Great attitude!’

  What an introduction. In fact Gina - Gina Watson - had been taking piano lessons from the moment her chin got over the keys. Rather than twiddling and pinging about, like the other punks, she’d passed bona fide music exams to a high level. This put the tiger among the flying rats.

  Gina looked as sharp as a razor blade too - glassy blonde hair starched up into an angel’s wing, black lipstick and crusts of black circling glimmering grey-blue eyes.

  Yeah, she was really nice looking, cool and tall as a Wimpy milkshake, and so trendy and interesting. When she first spoke to me, I got this strangled feeling, as if somebody was making a bow-tie out of my vocal cords. I tried to sort this out, but a Rubik’s Cube was simpler than to find the right words. For weeks this happened to me every time I opened my mouth. It was so bloody embarrassing.

  Apparently she’d wriggled out of respectable clothes into her punk gear, on the top deck of the bus over. Her parents were vehemently opposed to her being in any type of rock band. She left her house by the rear, as normally dad was her taxi service. They didn’t get an image of Gina playing rhythm guitar in a punk group. No, they visualised her with the Royal Philharmonic and them watching her proudly from a private box.

  Neither Marty nor Stan was impressed by musical accomplishment. Both of them were arch punk propagandists. Inspired incompetence was their bench mark. Any talk about ‘classical’ music produced spasms. The best qualification was not to recognise one end of a guitar from the other. Then you got a band with your mates and just tried to work it out. Joe Strummer didn’t take a voice coach, did he - according to Snot. The only way Mick Jones or Rat Scabies used sheet music was to light up their reefers at an all-night squat party.

  ‘What are you going to study at music college?’ Herb asked.

  ‘How to get drunk and enjoy myself,’ Gina replied.

  All was not lost. Gina’s attitude, style and punk fashion sense made an impact. Despite dropping her guitar and tripping over wires, she wasn’t going to take any shit off anybody called Snot.

  She was definitely punk, regardless. She was honest to admit to having lessons and aspirations for a career as a pianist. Of course Marty dreamed of making his fortune from music, albeit without playing anything other than the media. The other band members liked her. And that was before she picked up the guitar or began singing.

  Gorran sensed genuine musical talent and gold discs and better. Despite being filling out Crock’s timesheet (suggesting he was paying for these rehearsals) the new girl caught his pop eye. Like the characters in a fruit-machine during a power surge, pound signs were revolving in his eyes. His flexible grin became more fixed, as he took her in.

  ‘Right, definitely, Gina, come on and string up that bloomin beautiful guitar of yours. Straight up, lower the mic to the right fucking height. Gord ‘elp us, if it an’t a breath of fresh blinkin air to have a gifted girl around this studio complex. Or I must be Perry Coma.’

  ‘I’ll follow you and see how I get on,’ she told the others.

  ‘We’re still a punk group,’ Stan reminded her.

  ‘Yeah, don’t worry. Rock needed a kick up the arse, didn’t it? It’s exciting,’ she added nervously.

  She came from a nicer social background than we did. She was a bad middle-class girl and she wasn’t the only one. She wanted to see what it was like to go wrong.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot of punk down in London,’ Gina said.

  She went through the roll-call of the times. She’d heard all the best new bands, and some of the most eye-catchingly terrible. Stan didn’t comment but I could tell he was impressed. She was written all over with street-cred like a Berlin subway.

  ‘My songs are too moronic for a trained musician,’ Snot sneered.

  ‘Maybe you can give me lessons?’

  Stan huffed and shuffled. ‘You don’t need any taste in music.’

  ‘I already got a taste of yours,’ she joked.

  ‘So you resign?’

  Gina fumbled with her guitar lead as if she’d never plugged in before. Soon I’d realise this was just nerves, although the others were giving wary looks.

  ‘The orchestra’s waiting,’ Stan pointed out.

  ‘Okay, I’m not familiar with this...’

  ‘Maybe you only play the fucking piano.’

  ‘Give her a chance now, Stan bay!’

  ‘I don’t want any fucking harpsichordists in this group.’

  ‘Give me the tunings, will you? For the first song?’ Gina said. Her hand was trembling as she turned things.

  ‘Never mind tunings. This isn’t the last night of the fucking Proms, is it?’

  The thing was, when Gina began to strum she sounded fantastic.

  Billy called out from the drum stool, ‘She can sing a bit too, lads!’

  ‘Nutcase is vocals,’ Stan cut back. He pretended to stay unimpressed. Owing to his lateness Snot stooped and crouched over an unfamiliar guitar, which was giving him trouble.

  ‘Nutcase and me are mates already,’ Gina insisted. ‘Aren’t we, Nut? I don’t know what his singing’s like... but he’s a top lad.’

  ‘He is definitely top note,’ Herb said.

  ‘You’ll soon fucking find out,’ Snot predicted.

  ‘All right Gina?’ Nutcase greeted her. The giant vocalist stalked the floor in preparation, like some sea monster on the sands.

  ‘Let’s address our fucking instruments,’ Snot suggested.

  ‘Right, definitely you lot, stop pissing about, let’s get a blinkin move on? Straight up, I an’t playing no game of bloomin statues with you lot. No bullshit, I can hear the fucking meter going round. Right, so I got a discount from Troy, but this is still costing a truckload of money.’ Marty held up a chunky wristwatch, tapping the glass - the drips of paint did not hide the rising tariff.

  Everyone agreed that they were ready. Snot awkwardly called out one two three four. Somehow missing the obvious cue, they rattled and stumbled into an awkward first number. There was an awful lot of chugging and chopping, sudden tempi changes, intensifying stalls and dramatic accelerations. Even so, when Gina began playing it was a bit of a revelation.

  Once the ‘tune’ had finished, Snot, after a delay, fiddling with knobs, gave his verdict. ‘That was fucking terrible, lads. Just not as terrible as we wanted. How’s it possible to murder one of my tunes.’

  ‘That’s true enough now,’ Billy agreed, laughing.

  ‘Yeah, and my tunes are already murdering music,’ Snot quipped.

  ‘Right, definitely, what’s all this blinkin monkey business all about?’ Marty complained from the side-lines. ‘No bullshit, at least try to play some fucking tune altogether.’

  ‘Corgi Sandwich is next up,’ Stan told them.

  ‘Corgi Sandwich!’ Gina said.

  ‘What about it? Pick the hairs out.’

  ‘What’s the chords? What exactly you saying I should play?’

  ‘Catch up.’

  ‘Stan, bay. Give a signal to start so,’ Billy suggested. ‘You have to make it feckin’ clear to us all now!’

  ‘Like counting in isn’t strong enough?’

  ‘Try it at the same speed so!’

  ‘Don’t get your dirty undies in a twist, Billy,’ Anna-kissed objected.

  ‘Yes, right, just because you’ve played in a show band,’ Herb sniggered.

  ‘Wanna nose job, Herb bay?’ Billy warned, leaning forward.

  ‘So can you all try fucking harder this time?’ Snot told them.

  ‘Did I fuck up?’ Gina wondered.

  This question hung in the air, because it was so far from
reality.

  ‘I got me vocals warmed up now,’ Nutcase explained. He began pacing again, like Dame Sutherland on steroids.

  ‘Don’t give us full throttle yet, Nut. Keep it to second gear, mate.’

  Stan fiddled and fussed at the guitar’s controls, as if he really cared.

  It was still unclear why a punk band wanted to rehearse on a Sunday. I suppose it was better than watching your parents snore through Songs of Praise or Sing Something Simple.

  Observing all this, Marty was twitching and wincing from a corner of Crock’s Sound Studio B. For him notes were musical and leaving the bank fast.

  ‘Hurry up, Herb. I don’t wanna see your flashy Jackson Five fretwork.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know it, Stan.’

  ‘If it kicked him up the arse,’ Anna-kissed put in. She kept weighing the rhythm guitar in front of her, like Herb ought to carry it for her.

  ‘Just keep it all simple,’ Stan said.

  Herb’s desire to be Sly and the Family Stone was a tough call for a new punk group. Particularly as his girlfriend had only found her battered guitar in a junk shop the previous month.

  In the face of this Gina decided to strum modestly. When she played discordantly, it was deliberate, not because she hit the strings like Gus the gorilla on drugs, as did most lads starting local groups. For her these approaching chord changes felt like traffic lights far ahead, while Anna-kissed and even Stan were still groping in the dark. I noticed that despite being the least musical person in the room.

  ‘Try Corgi Sandwich again,’ Stan prompted.

  This time Gina was along with the chorus. She had a soprano that cut through Nutcase’s wrenching howl. Singing well and in tune was truly subversive. There was going to be a shake-up, if Stan allowed her to stay. She injected musical talent, and it was completely taboo.

  ***

  ‘You thought it was OK? Thanks.’ Gina got tangled in her guitar strap on the way out.

  ‘Right definitely, no bullshit Gina, from where I fucking stood it was making Pauline in Penetration sound like blinkin Barbara Dickenson. Or I must be Shirley Bassey,’ the rock guru enthused.