Punk Story

by Neil Rowland

  19. Ego Clash

  Marty Gorran was heading for us through the crush. A high voltage smile sent numbing electricity through us. ‘Hel-lo! Hel-lo, you lot! How’re you all doing?’ It didn’t clock immediately that Gina was slouched next to us.

  ‘In fine fettle, cheers Marty man,’ Roy replied, enjoying his own bevy.

  Marty and Roy should have been total opposites; one being a Marxist and the other a media capitalist. However, they somehow they clicked: popular and unpopular music was the uniting factor. Marty even hired him to look after Star Materials finances. In fact the music mogul had hundreds of quid stashed away in numerous nooks and crannies. The cash was in boxes and containers around his flat or at the workshop. All the money was income from gigs and first record sales.

  Roy was pleased to get involved with the local music scene. He’d got the extra cred of being employed by the Inland Revenue office. If only our Tory dad knew that his tax returns were being processed by a Socialist Workers Party member. In Smith’s mind, under the stage of late capitalism, there was no contradiction between the revenue and the revolution.

  ‘Paulie hasn’t turned up,’ I explained.

  ‘Gord ‘elp us, you mean that lad off the blinkin local rag? Right, definitely, so where do I get another fucking support act from? What I heard about him he’s off with another gel. Straight up, somewhere with his bloomin trousers around his ankles,’ Marty said, wincing at his woes.

  ‘Away man, your guess is as good as ours like. The rest of his group are all here and weetin downstairs for ‘im like.’

  ‘Straight up, I’ve never heard this bloomin Viscous Kittens lot. No bullshit, I booked ‘em on trust.’

  ‘He’s not going to show,’ I lamented.

  At this point Marty suffered a rude awakening. His troubles quadrupled as he noticed that ‘Sour Cat’ was next to me. ‘Gord ‘elp us, Gina, no bullshit, what the blue monkeys with a fucking hard-on are you doin up here?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Leave me alone, you slave driver.’

  Filled with angst Marty’s amiable grimace crumbled. He saw how drunk she was. A pickled musical rat was chewing at the cables of rock superstardom.

  ‘No bullshit gel, what’s the big blinkin idea? No bullshit, loitering with all these blinkin headbangers and knocking back crates of fucking orangeades at this time?’ he complained. The Pop maverick looked her over anxiously, checking off his spattered watch.

  ‘Leave me alone, okay?’ Gina let off a cackle, tilted her head back and tried to get a last drop of vodka out of the glass.

  Marty observed this behaviour in horror, as if watching a multi-million pounds record deal trickling down the drain.

  ‘Straight up you lads, why didn’t you bloomin stop her drinking herself under the fucking table like this?’

  ‘She got here before we did,’ I objected.

  ‘Gord ‘elp us Bottle, how many of them fucking cherry pops has she been tossing against her bloomin tonsils?’ A pained grin stretched those features in reprimand and angst.

  ‘You don’t own me, cheesy. You can’t tell me what to do,’ she slurred.

  ‘Away man, we can’t pump oot her stomach,’ Roy argued.

  ‘Viscous Kittens are due on stage in ten minutes,’ I commented.

  ‘Right, definitely, so you entertain the fucking crowd, Bottle.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m a free woman.’

  The plaster was falling out of Marty’s rococo features.

  Les Phoenix swept into the venue (on his night off) and immediately came to join the throng. As he noticed the scene of discord, a smile of condescension played up and down his crafty smirk, like Jools Holland’s fingers over a pianoforte.

  ‘Gee Marty, havin a piece of trouble with your artists. Or what’s the jive with these guys?’ he observed with a drawl.

  ‘Right, definitely Les mate, nothing I can’t blinkin handle.’

  ‘Don’t cut em any slack, Marty.’

  ‘Fair play, Les, but I look after my own blinkin big-name bands in my own fucking way, don’t I?’ The teeth were clamped together in defensive formation.

  He lit a charoot and killed the match. ‘Remember the old Colonel Parker, baby.’

  Phoenix, in the role of exiled American rock mastermind, kept to the shadows. He gloated under a gas-guzzling hat, and began to sup an original American malt. A rock manager/promoter’s fur coat insulated against the cold and damp of the English climate. He dismissed any of the rumours that he originally came from Stoke-on-Trent. Les didn’t hold with such petty small town gossip and rumours. He kept the wide-angle of the big country in his mind.

  ‘Hey boys! How ya all doin?’ Betsy Dandie greeted us. She’d a bouncy enthusiasm, a radiant smile, though her dental dazzle rivalled Marty’s. They were as large as quarterbacks - only more polished and regular. She was in black, a type of a spider’s web blouse, with leather trousers and thigh boots. She resembled Dolly Parton out on Halloween.

  She swished the mane. ‘How’s the big gig prep goin’, Marty?’ she called to him, bubbling and sparkling before us.

  Gina’s punk costume helped her to blend in. She observed Betsy shyly, as a younger girl sometimes looks at a confident older woman. Even if the glamorous Baltimore rocker had a derivative sound, her rock ‘n’ roll cred were authentic. Betsy was never a common or garden character around our neck of the woods.

  ‘The Screamers gig with Benatar was awesome, guys,’ Les reported. ‘Did you read that freakin rave review she got in Sounds last week?’

  ‘Straight up, Les mate, I might have noticed something. And I definitely picked out a few bloomin earth tremors.’

  ‘Geez, man, it was sweet. You should have freakin been there. This reporter from the Birmin’ham Post buzzed me for an interview. This guy agreed Betsy blew Benatar out of the goddamn arena,’ Les bragged.

  ‘Quite a night,’ Betsy cut in. Leaving further hype and promotion to Phoenix, she began to socialise with her lead guitarist.

  ‘So this guy tells me how Benatar’s roadies were gonna pull the freakin plug on my Betsy,’ Les recalled. His shrewd sharp eyes aimed their rays just over our heads. ‘Benatar was one relieved chick when the Screamers packed up their gear and took the freeway home.’ He tapped the side of his impressive conk.

  ‘Right, definitely...’

  ‘I’ve gotta level with you, Marty baby... cos one of the Screamers’ roadies overheard some little guy from Kerrang! sayin how Dandie has the most huge female rock voice of the century,’ Phoenix reported.

  ‘No bullshit, Les mate, but how can you bloomin measure something like that?’

  ‘This guy said like, we blew out a window in the cathedral,’ Betsy said, putting in her piece.

  ‘No bull here, Marty baby, cos I’ve already got the goddamn track list sorted for Betsy’s epony-mouse debut album,’ Phoenix informed us. He touched the crown of his Stetson. With a dry catch in his voice, Les told us, ‘Sure thing, man, I already know what the first freakin US hit single’s gonna be.’

  ‘Fair play, Les mate, I heard the gig went blinkin well.’

  ‘The way Betsy and the boys is rockin, Marty baby, she’s a freakin shoe in for this Battle of the Bands... here in little ole Nulton town,’ he told us. Les chuckled and raised his glass in ironic salute to the place.

  ‘Right, definitely, Les mate, but I wou’n’t be too over blinkin confident about your chances of winning,’ Marty warned. He seemed to get a sudden tooth ache which cracked his grin.

  ‘We always get a fuckin full ouse when our little Betsy’s on,’ Dave Crock bellowed at us, with a wink. The ex-centre-half returned to a strong position at the bar beside us.

  ‘Me, Betsy and the boys are goin back to the States this Fall. We’re ready to sign on the freakin line with Bonnie Tyler. After that we’re back on the goda
mn road, man. The band bus’s swingin South to join up with the Kiss show. We’re on the sk-edule for joinin those Kiss boys during their stadium dates. Gee Marty, it’s gonna be a sweet tour, man.’

  ‘Cheers everybody!’ Crock interjected. He sank another pint, looking flushed and glassy, while keeping a free hand flat on the counter.

  ‘Right, definitely, but you don’t want to be out of blinkin touch with the British music scene. Straight up, there’s a lot of bloomin exciting new bands springing up here in blinkin England. And no bullshit, Les mate, you don’t want to miss the next wave of bloomin exciting music. Like someone eyed blinkin Californian surfer missing the next fucking big one, Les mate.’ Gorran grinned about the circle of punks and hangers on in anguish, being stung by his rival’s US-centric view of rock.

  ‘Gee Marty, you’re too impressed by these bunches of English friggin punks. There ain’t nothin you British guys can teach us about rock ‘n’ roll. Man, you shoulda taken up my invite for Birmin’ham. One day you’re gonna ask yourself where you was that night. No shit, it was the Stones at the Rosebowl. And our Betsy’s gonna be a big star in the US of A one day, man. These little punk guys of yours gonna be cryin into their freakin mugs of warm beer, Marty baby. Or milky tea,’ he added.

  ‘Fair play, Les mate, but you can’t avoid punk rock happening big here in the bloomin UK,’ Gorran winced, dragging deeply on his latest ciggie, to order his thoughts. ‘All those blinkin yanks are looking our fucking way right now.’

  ‘Sure baby, I’m listenin but, shoot, man... take some advice about this business. Like gee, I’d been in this industry for three freakin decades. Yeah man, for real. Find a beautiful chick with a big voice, writing her own freakin toons. Get yourself a great gel with a goddamned big voice that hits the back row of the shittin bleakers, man... a gel singer who gets the freakin hairs on the back of your neck freakin twanging.’ Cheeks colouring a little, Phoenix moistened his lizard lips with Jack D.

  ‘Fair play, she definitely gets the hairs in my blinkin ears twanging,’ Marty remarked.

  ‘Our little Betsy’s welcome at the ‘Atter,’ Crock boomed. The club owner raised a full pint towards the American rock magnate, before he downed it in tribute to takings.

  ‘It’s a goddamn done deal, Marty baby. Don’t waste your energy promotin’ that bunch of freakin British hooligans,’ Phoenix advised.

  ‘Little Betsy’s always welcome ere at the ‘Atter!’ Crock shouted. ‘She pulls the punters. Tight fuckers open up ‘eir wallets. No, no, no... No trouble to Dave Crock. I ain’t got no complaints bart er. Beautiful little gel, Betsy!’ Crock brayed. He managed to lock his knees to secure his grip. ‘Nah, nah, an if any fuckin dirty tosser gets is filfy ands on er,’ he promised.

  The Beverley Hills rock mogul came to the rescue. ‘You’re welcome, sir. We salute your freakin good taste. Betsy’s a goddamn east coast classic. Period.’

  ‘You can say that agen, Joe!’ Crock roared.

  ‘Right, definitely, all well and bloomin good Les mate, but you don’t want to ignore a fucking talented little punk rock band like mine,’ Gorran argued, going through contortions of protest.

  ‘Gee Marty, what’s with you and these scruffy bad teeth losers man? My Betsy and the Screamers is gonna blow every goddamn little Brit punk group of yours out of the freakin pond.’

  ‘Fair play Les mate, you want to hear Mortal blinkin Wound play live tonight,’ Marty argued. He continued to grimace with confidence, waving his ciggie about in the air.

  ‘Let me be freakin straight with you Marty, they don’t stand no chance against Betsy, in this god damned Battle of the Bands,’ Les crowed.

  ‘You can take a fuckin compliment, can’t you love?’

  ‘Straight up, you’re in for a blinkin shock. Mortal’s the best new group I’ve heard this side of the Dolls knocking ‘em dead at the bloomin Garden last year,’ Gorran insisted. He grinned in wonder at the great rock memory. ‘Or I’m Farah Fosset Majors.’

  ‘No chance of beatin us, matey,’ Betsy added, overhearing.

  Phoenix clicked the back of his cowboy boots and stared ironically at the heavens. ‘You’re never gonna get to second base with those freakin British thugs,’ Phoenix insisted.

  The corporate rock chieftain narrowed his wind-stung, icy blue prairie eyes at a wider distant horizon, to concentrate on those big American Billboard dreams of rock stardom, coming along on the side of the freeway.

  20. New HQ

  ‘Enjoy yerselves, lads! Get some more pints down yer froats!’ Crock urged our party. Old-fashioned gentlemen’s manners were lost on these little uptight American rock stars.

  Roy observed the club owner out of nervous fascination. He wasn’t sure how to take the man or where to place him on the political scale. I wasn’t any more socially at ease.

  ‘Right, definitely Dave mate, I appreciate all your blinkin support,’ Gorran said. ‘Only, fair play, I’d like to call in your promise to get me office space here at the Hatter.’

  The publican’s eyes sharpened. ‘Office space? Ere? What yer talkin bart?’ he asked, leaning over in a menacing whisper.

  ‘Right, definitely Dave mate, you offered me a room down in the blinkin basement, payment in bloomin kind for Alice in fucking wonderland,’ Gorran recalled. Marty gave a wavering smile to help him remember and keep a promise. There was always a first.

  ‘What ya need a fuckin office foo-er, Marty boy? You can’t play fuckin moosic darn there!’

  ‘Right, Dave mate, what do you think? Fair play, it’s about bloomin admin and organisation. Straight up, we’ve been scratching around for a blinkin HQ. Definitely, I’m starting up this new bloomin publishing venture of mine,’ Gorran explained.

  ‘Publishin?’ he spluttered. ‘Printin’?’

  ‘Right Dave, soon as possible I’m going to blinkin bed with this new music fanzine project.’

  ‘Goin’ to fuckin bed? How does this in-foo-ence my mags?’

  ‘Right, definitely Dave, this don’t affect your bloomin erotic mag range. Fair play, cos the idea’s to promote all our Star Materials artists taking part in this Battle of the bloomin Bands contest coming up soon Dave, that those local council crooks is blinkin promoting.’

  ‘Don’t worry bart them fuckin nosy wankers, Marty boy.’

  Gorran made a face. ‘Right, straight up, we’ve all had enough of them meddling tossers, Dave mate.’

  ‘So what’s this all abart offices? What you twistin my fuckin arm for now, Marty boy?’

  Gorran offered up his friendly smiling mug through a cloud of amiable ciggie smoke. ‘Straight up Dave, Star Materials has got to have its own bloomin office some place. No bullshit, the editorial staff’s got to blinkin spread out and have its own bloomin base somewhere, doesn’t it,’ Gorran explained.

  ‘A base? Staff?’ Losing contact with gravity, staggering a few steps, Crock just about rescued himself. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Right, definitely Dave mate, steady on, cos you already mentioned something about our office,’ Marty said, jogging his memory.

  ‘That’s your business, Marty boy,’ Crock insisted, firmly planted, only wavering. ‘Moosic!’

  ‘No bullshit Dave, let’s turn a huge bloomin profit on my first edition, quicker’n James Hunt can get his fucking Lotus out of the garage,’ Marty argued. He flinched at the prospect. ‘Fair play let’s get my blinkin new editorial staff settled in there.’

  ‘What fuckin staff you tawkin bart?’ Crock demanded.

  ‘Right, definitely Dave mate, this lad.’

  ‘This lad? This geeky shitface ere?’

  ‘Right, definitely, it’s Paul Bottle’s our new Copywriter and Editor in chief, Dave mate.’ The punk genius grinned certainty and assurance.

  ‘An oos this scruffy fuck next to im?’

  Attention foc
ussed on Roy, who blinked in surprise through the taped-up NHS frames, beginning to roast in his parker.

  ‘This is our new blinkin Treasurer in Chief for Star Materials music corporation,’ Gorran informed him. He took a swivel and opened an arm. ‘Roy Smith, Dave Crock. Dave Crock, Roy Smith.’

  ‘Fuckin delighted, Mr Smith...is it? What yer drinkin? C’mon, c’mon, I got me own fuckin tab ere. I own the fuckin place. Dream come true. Ain’t bought a fuckin drink for twenty years! Perks’a the trade son, after more’n a decade defendin in the fuckin first team.’

  ‘No bullshit Dave, that Alice in Wonderful cost me a blinkin arm an’ a leg, what with that truck load of fucking emulsion. Straight up, it took me best part of six months to get the fucking rick out of my bloomin neck,’ Marty recalled.

  Crock began to tunnel back in time. ‘What you planning next, Marty boy?’ he pressed.

  Gorran exercised his features to meet the challenge. ‘Fair play, we’ve already got more than five hundred blinkin quid saved up in our kitty. Straight up, I’ve got to keep all that bloomin loot safe together some place, with Roy here helping out. No bullshit, cos the idea’s to enter all my blinkin Star Materials bands in this Battle of the Bands competition. Definitely cos that five hundred quid’s got to cover the entrances fees for them all,’ Marty explained.

  Crock rocked back with another beer and drained it. He was overcome with sentimental respect for his DJ’s genius. ‘You’ve always played fair an fuckin square wi me, Marty boy. You can ave yer office. Ave it. We talkin good money, Marty? So what we talkin? More n a few monkeys?’

  ‘Right, definitely, Dave mate, more than monkeys, that’s the bloomin big idea, Dave mate.’ Marty was twinkling and grinning optimistically at full power.

  ‘Well then, I’ll get a fuckin strong box put in. Ave a word wiv my boy, Troy,’ Crock offered, woozily. ‘You never done a sneaky one rarnd the fuckin side. You always put on a fuckin nice show. Wi them fuckin dreadful fuckin bands a yours. I’m lookin forward to that gig t’night. I’ve eard a lot abart this new fuckin rock group a yours.’