by Neil Rowland
‘You’ll never destroy the Nazis with that attitude, comrade,’ Roy warned, still on the move.
‘I’d let them fuck me, if it didn’t hurt so much,’ the punk argued.
The Trotskyite was shocked. ‘Oh, no man, you can’t talk like that about the class struggle. Away man, you don’t want anything to do with these fascists. We’ve got to speak out for a real socialist alternative.’
‘Si’ down man, you’re mekin me neck stiff. We don’t want any more polit-cal agi-tation!’ Dennis spelt out, blood rising.
‘Does anyone know what’s happened to Paulie?’ I wondered.
‘Away Bottle, you noo where that daft fucker’s gonna be.’
‘He got picked up in the Dragon, didn’t he,’ Stan reminded me.
‘Yeah, but shouldn’t he be home by now?’
‘This might be a stupid question,’ Snot said, turning to me. ‘But didn’t your old man ever give you a bit of a talk?’
‘What do you mean ‘a talk’? You mean about the facts of life and stuff?’
‘Away man, he’s off shaggin’ some lass, as you sit there.’
Fat chance of Wellington sleeping in his own bed that night. He was busy auditioning another punkette. It gave the idea of backing vocals a whole different twist. He wouldn’t return home until after work the next evening. These night-moves affected his work and added to his problems at the newspaper office.
This gave me a chance to peep into Casanova’s room. His new punk record collection was stacking up - many recent purchases, with stickers and cellophane attached. The decor had changed too, with CND, Johnny Rotten and Talking Heads posters attached. Apparently he was still living out of a suitcase, as if he expected the sack before long. It was the same trunk that came down with him, from his parents’ house, in a village near Norwich. His dad (a Head Teacher) must have been very proud of his son graduating from the journalism course and finding a staff job very quickly. I began to feel sorry for him. For Paulie, that is.
Extremist politics have more success in troubled times. It was hard right and hard left, wherever you looked. The ‘centre’ was about as appealing as a mouldy orange chocolate cream, picked off the floor. Our tango with the NF boys demonstrated the state of local politics. It wasn’t difficult to get into a bitter arguments with your dad or anyone. Thinking back on that punk era, many us were displaced persons. We had to create our own culture and art. We improvised our marginal lives, our uncertain identities and the ‘no future’.
Later, after we had calmed from that fight, Roy was at my shoulder, while I stared curiously into a spare bedroom. ‘So why don’t you move in with us, Paul, marra?’ he suggested. The Smith was soothing class-war jitters by swigging on a fat bottle of ‘Dog’: Newcastle Brown beer.
‘Don’t you want me to bring in another flat mate?’
‘Nawh, Bottle, forget about any conditions. I’m inviting you to take the room, man. Don’t worry about it.’
Roy’s mirthful, friendly eyes, much calmer, settled on me fraternally, magnified within double TV tubes.
‘That’s really generous. Sure about that?’
‘Away man!’
‘What’s Paulie going to think about it?’ I wondered.
‘What does he ever think, marra?’
‘Right, but you’d better tell him.’
‘C’mon Bottle comrade, I’m responsible for that, move in will yer? It’s nothing to do with Paulie. Anyway he won’t mind, marra. There’d be trouble if I invite a couple of girls to take those rooms, cos he’ll only go and seduce em, mind.’
Roy adopted a comradely, manly posture as he knocked back his ‘dog’.
I was still preoccupied with Paulie’s prolific number of conquests.
‘You spreading legends about me again?’ Stan appeared.
‘Only when your back’s turned,’ I jested.
‘What you two planning?’
‘Roy’s going to let me take one of the rooms. He’s relaxed about me coming in by myself.’
‘Oh, yeah, that’s sound,’ Snot came back.
‘No trouble comrades, I can put another ad into the Nulton Chronicle,’ Roy considered. ‘Paulie can put ads in for nowt like. It’s one of the perks of his jab. Anyway lads, after the revolution, everybody’ll have a decent place to live. We won’t need to ad-ver-ise in the cap’list media. We’ll redevelop all those fancy boutiques and offices for affordable rental, comrades.’
‘But that other spare bedroom’s still available, right? Technically?’ Stan added.
‘Away, there’s a room there for you, if you want it, marra!’
I turned to the punk guitarist in amazement. ‘What you saying? You’re thinking of coming in too?’
‘I know about all your bad habits, Bottle.’
‘Get off, cos I always keep a wall between us,’ I laughed.
‘I can get on with my song writing.’
‘What’s wrong with living at home? Your home, that is.’
‘Living with the enemy?’
‘Your family made me really welcome. You got no reason to complain.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t want to retire there, do I. I don’t want Mum to bring me breakfast in bed every morning. Where would Keith Richards be, if his Mum had been there every morning?’
‘Away Stan, you’re welcome to move in. Whenever you want, marra.’
‘You’re an officer and a gentleman of the red army.’
‘Like Trotsky,’ I said.
‘Away lads, you have to read the article about rock and racism. It’s in this week’s copy of the peeper mind,’ he encouraged. Adding, ‘Ten pence cheaper for the unwaged, comrades!’
‘I work in the Co-op,’ I reminded him. ‘Don’t forget.’
‘Caring and sharing,’ Stan said.
‘Ai, it’s a start man.’
As for finding a place to live, you couldn’t say we were settled. But at least we had a leaky roof over our punk hairstyles.
16. Uncle Luigi’s Guitar
Stan moved in to the room next to mine. This change was a seminal moment for the music scene, like Strummer leaving the 101ers to form The Clash with Jones and Simenon.
Snot’s folks were distraught at news of his departure. His Mum, Apostolia, spoilt and pampered him more than usual.
Stan and I attended the last supper. The meal consisted of a delicious linguine, with tiramisu for dessert - all homemade. There was no sign of life from the house next door; the place I had grown up. There was not a twitch from those double lined curtains. After the meal we had to gather Stan’s stuff and move it across town. The punk axe hero didn’t tell his parents where the Mansion was located - for obvious reasons. Instead of getting a lift off his dad, we made excuses and called a taxi. If they knew where their son lived, they wouldn’t keep away from him.
‘Jonny, darlin’, call me! Call me, soon as you arrive! Promise?!’ Apostolia was tearful, gripping his hands, hugging him, gazing long into his eyes; and then she was caressing his bristly cheeks and pushing money into his hands. The scene was different to when I was leaving home.
Snot’s parents gave him a magnificent leaving present. I’m not talking about the dinner and a wad of notes either. The gift was a vintage guitar, which dated from 1952, once belonging to his Uncle Luigi. This maternal relative of his, much loved by all, had been a musician in numerous bands. Stan was dismissive of rock culture and heritage, yet had a taste and respect for Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley, Lee-Lewis and Little Richard. Thanks to the library he’d got to hear vintage rock ‘n’ roll and learnt a lot from the recordings.
When Snot received his venerable instrument, it was in decent condition, apart from needing new strings. Just a bit of restoration and tuning up required. As I remember it had three knobs and a lever that changed octave or
bent notes. Snot was interested in devices that changed a guitar’s factory sound. With Luigi’s guitar he relied less on technological effects than before. When he’d first started playing it he’d simply hit the strings randomly of course. This classic instrument from Uncle Luigi had a beautiful smooth sound, requiring firmer and more precise fingering. Curiously Snot was the only one who ever knew how to play it. The instrument was almost fated to him.
‘This guitar feels amazing,’ he admitted. ‘The love of my life can’t be better.’
He couldn’t find a manufacturer’s mark. He took the instrument to music shops asking them to identify it. Nobody could say where it came from or explain much about origination. Mysteriously the instrument had different characteristics, which couldn’t be traced precisely to any particular manufacturer. Stan wondered if the guitar had been made by a back street craftsman in Naples. By strict definition the guitar was just a replica, a hybrid or even a forgery, no matter how fantastic it sounded. And that wasn’t its only strange characteristic.
His uncle stopped playing due to arthritis in the finger joints. This trouble came from years working in a brick kiln, rather than from musicianship. Despite his love for rock ‘n’ roll, Luigi was forced to hang up his blue suede shoes. We went to visit him in sheltered accommodation, and he played his old record collection and reminisced. Certainly his fingers were thickened and gnarled, serviceable only for card games. The elderly Italian’s suits looked a bit thin, but he was as rich as Nero with musical memories.
The best story Luigi’s told concerned how, during the summer of 1962, Elvis Presley flew over to England from Germany (where he was stationed) to play a one-off secret gig. It was the only gig the King ever played in Britain - so secret that the press and public never learnt about it. Elvis took an American Airforce plane over, to land at an airfield near Lincoln, accompanied by a group of good scratch musicians. This was necessary to avoid the attentions of the Colonel - Presley’s notorious manager - who’d forbidden any concerts in England, due to his own shady past.
Presley and the boys had turned up at the venue, ready for a sound check. Of course the King was in disguise, allowing his short army haircut to go back to its natural blonde. Luigi said that the King had a great sense of humour and took delight in wearing heavy fake specs. At the sound check his guitarist found that his own regular instrument was damaged and no longer playable. The whole secret gig was put at risk by that, with just a few hours remaining until the venue opened.
Uncle Luigi was employed as a ground crew worker at the airfield. After finding out about Presley’s plans he was immediately outside the stage door. An employee at the hall mentioned the guitarist’s predicament and, in a flash, Luigi dashed home and returned with his own guitar as a replacement. So that night James Burton - it was none other than him - took Luigi’s special guitar into his special hands. Burton was brilliant enough to adjust, shaking out those classic riffs to early Presley hits, in that superbly crisp and understated style.
After the gig Luigi was invited backstage and introduced to Elvis. Luigi was very proud when Burton came over to speak to him, full of praise for that borrowed guitar. Burton said how impressed he’d been by its full sound and easy handling. Only reluctantly did Burton give it back. He told the modest Luigi that he’d ‘got himself a mighty fine guitar. Pure as a bell. Where did you find this beaut’. man?’ Yet even Luigi was unsure.
Before it was passed to young Jon, the guitar had been locked in its case, gathering dust; catches rusted, on top of a wardrobe. His uncle heard a lot about the terrible punks. He was scandalised by the expletives filled performances. On the other hand, he knew there were other scandals in popular music history. The punks were not the first or last in this music. Otherwise you were not worthy of the title of a rock ‘n’ roll rebel.
***
Outside of Snot’s family nostalgia, Mortal’s rehearsals showed signs of improvement. Musical riffs went along with personality tiffs.
We noticed that Herb was keeping away and working longer hours at the hair salon. Turned out, Anna-kissed had got herself hooked up with Paulie. Their eyes had met at the Looking Glass disco. It had been undying lust for an entire night. Only she couldn’t stop thinking and talking about him for weeks afterwards, even if Wellington struggled to place her.
‘I’m playing guitar in his new band,’ Anna-kissed admitted.
Herb was outraged. ‘You doing what? Let’s get this straight, shall we Henrietta? You’re suggesting that you’re playing for that plonker and for his band now?’ he screamed.
‘Don’t judge,’ she suggested.
‘You shouldn’t have agreed,’ Snot said, ‘without saying anything to us first.’
‘I’m just doing Paulie a favour, until he gets this group together.’
‘Oh yes, Henrietta, we understand about favours to Paulie,’ objected Herb.
‘I’m a free girl,’ she retorted.
‘Fine, but I’m not sharing.’
Anna-kissed had a green Doc Marten boot on two different stages. She’d have to choose between punk trash and punk dub. While Herb and she were arguing and fighting, more seriously, they disrupted band practice.
Meanwhile, to cover for Anna-kissed, Gina Watson - or ‘Sour Cat’ as she now preferred to be called - alternated instruments to fill in, depending who was absent. Gina could tickle anything with a key or a string. Snot regretted that Paulie had ever met Anna-kissed. Wellington couldn’t take one of his musicians scot-free. It came to a head in the Dragon one night.
‘Find your own fucking musicians,’ he snarled.
‘Phew, calm down, Stan, will you?’ Wellington’s features were a picture of innocence besmirched. ‘Who twanged your strings, mate?’
‘D’you fancy anybody else in our band? Lucky fucking dip, is it?’
‘That’s really dodgy. Why should I fancy anybody,’ he laughed.
‘I hope you don’t shag the way you write.’
‘Phew, no need to be so bloody offensive, is there mate? That comment sounds a bit sexist, to be honest. What’s the matter, you jealous of my job at the paper?’ Paulie ticked him off.
‘Just keep out of their knickers,’ Snot warned.
Wellington offered that innocent and maligned look, as if revolutionary socialism wouldn’t melt in his mouth. There was a razor-blade atmosphere between them, even though Paulie couldn’t see the problem.
Whatever the truth of his brush with Anna-kissed, he’d created erotic mayhem among the punks. He’d a true gift as a natural born lady killer and a wrecker of musical careers.
Around this period Stan seemed to be getting closer to Gina. Despite their constant bickering he relied on her talent, to shape the band sound. Sour Cat was the only one who could tackle his new material, which was getting more complicated. Snot would get her to harmonise the material and to advise on the most natural chord changes. She taught him how to change key smoothly and to introduce a middle eight. To complicate matters even more, I realised that I was jealous.
Not that Sour Cat got to all the rehearsals or was fully dedicated. She was fickle with her presence as the name suggested. ‘Dad said I couldn’t come today. I’ve got some of those exams and, well, I just wouldn’t feel confident.’ Or: ‘Mum doesn’t like me being in a rock group. She doesn’t want me staying out late. I had to tell them I was going shopping. Otherwise they make me stay in and practice.’
Other times she’d got a hangover from clubbing. We assumed she’d been staying in Sheffield over the weekend, as we’d been told. She had relatives in that city and they gave her more freedom, which she took full advantage of.
When Stan saw a band down in London he’d get a good lie-in next day. If you couldn’t rely on him to be on time, then who was left to rescue Marty’s bank balance?
While this punk soap-opera ran, Nutcase was the only trustworth
y band character. This was despite him being fully employed and a responsible parent. His wife was pregnant again and he had domestic bills hanging over his Mohican cut like a hatchet.
Snot was settling into his new rock star condo, which was directly next to mine. During the evenings we’d listen to music tapes, including all Bowie’s Berlin recordings and other so-called ‘Kraut Rock’ recordings (Roy’s tastes were eclectic. There was more to him than just leftist politics). Paulie was usually out late, or distracted, with his pretty conquests. He didn’t share our company that often. The reporter certainly had a racy social life. Paulie slept with so many girls he didn’t even recognise their faces, not to mention their names. It was awkward to be in the pub with him, when a forgotten past conquest approached him, and demanded an answer. Despite that appealing ‘little boy lost’ look he had and - apparently - a sexual magnetism - he had the same effect on the female population as The Incredible Hulk on interior design.
It was a laugh when Paulie tried to join in with SWP political discussions at the flat. Roy sometimes held branch meetings in the living room and, if we were there too, we’d be drawn in to the debates. These could last long into the night, and be interesting, with a varied bunch of political characters taking part. Roy was the about the sanest one among them, in my view. Stan was bored and liked to wind them all up with controversial and contrary views. He sounded a bit like Paul Weller, when the ‘Modfather’ once claimed to be supporting the Tories.
Meanwhile I signed up for a journalism night course. The idea was to develop writing skills in advance of Marty’s new fanzine. When I began to interview local bands I realised how hard it was to get anything quotable from them. It could be painfully monosyllabic. When I had an interesting question, they’d just stare back at me in bewilderment, as if I said something like ‘how much do you enjoy mineral water?’
On top of these efforts I began reading the weekly music papers regularly. At the Hope and Anchor in Islington we saw Stiff acts, such as Wreckless Eric, Nick Lowe and Elvis Costello. This took us up a notch or two.
