Punk Story

by Neil Rowland

  ‘No bullshit, Mortal Wound.’

  ‘It’s a good ouse. I’m appy, Marty boy. I’m very pleased, son. You’re on the fuckin ball. No fancy tricks. You ain’t never fuckin megged me.’

  21. The Thin White Legs

  With the support slot late, nobody could say where Paulie might be.

  The Music Box lager lake was rising and soaking into my boot leather. It felt as if every punk rocker in the town and beyond had come to see Mortal Wound’s comeback gig. Marty continued to get all the hype in edgewise for the big occasion. Roy was equally busy trying to recruit disaffected youth for the SWP, showing no fear of even the most fearsome clans, undaunted by threats or apathy.

  Les Phoenix had opted to come downstairs to see what all the hype was about. Like an eagle on a distant rock ledge, or the best-selling AOR section at the Record Shack, Les kept a tasteful and imperial distance.

  More sinisterly Mick Dove and mates loitered stage front. They intended to cause mayhem and wanted to single Stan out, as being the ideal target for their hate.

  Dove’s transformation into a thuggish proto-skinhead was a puzzle. He had been brought up by his Grandparents, after losing both his parents early. As a Junior School boy he would invite me back to his house for tea and tarts. His grandparents seemed all right - just typical grandparents. You couldn’t blame them for his extreme views (as far as I knew). Mick left the Sixth Form with good A Levels. He’d been a hard working student at Nulton Arts. What was his big problem? Mick came over as a shy studious lad, a bit of a painful introvert. Except he’d share nasty psychotic fantasies with me on the way, sexual as much as political, told in a sinister whisper.

  There was a girl in the fashion department that Mick began to fancy. She turned him down politely, only he wouldn’t take no for an answer. One afternoon, as I wandered back into the studio, I noticed a row going on between them. Dove suddenly shoved the girl and sent her flying. While she screamed on the floor he coldly wandered away, hardly looking back. After that I took a different route home and we became suspicious enemies. I knew he was involved in a suede head gang and they launched revenge attacks on students they disliked.

  Meanwhile, back at the Hatter’s basement live venue, a swirling, packed crowd, was in a restless and rowdy mood. Not only were all these drunk and doped-up lads packed like proverbial oily fish in a can, but a long delay stretched their patience like whale gut.

  Viscous Kittens name had featured on posters and all promotional material as official support. Most of the Kittens, of both genders, were ready to appear. Unfortunately, sharing ironical looks, Roy and I didn’t have high hopes that Paulie would turn up.

  DJ for the night was Steve Fenton. This gave everyone the chance to hear Marty’s new record selection (plucked from the indie network that week), including a lot of stuff from The Ramones. Marty visited had gone into Stiff, Rough Trade and Honest Jon’s for the latest imported 45s, EPs and LPs. Gorran wasn’t insular in musical view, despite his passionate support for British acts. The underground American punk scene and, soon to be, the ‘new wave’ movement, began to fill boxes and to cover his decks too.

  Nulton’s Stray Cat wasn’t even in the building then, or ever likely to be. Probably he was hanging about at home, or prevaricating, or fornicating, or developing a new interest in something. Or maybe he was just sweating about an overdue news report.

  ‘No Kittens tonight,’ I predicted.

  Roy was broiling in his parker next to me. ‘Away man, there’s time for the comrade yet.’

  ‘How can they play, on a few hours practice?’

  ‘Paulie can’t drop out now, marra. He’s been rehearsin’ hard, like.’

  ‘More chance of sticky ribs than Viscous Kittens,’ I complained.

  ‘Away Bottle, you’ve got to keep optimistic about the future.’

  ‘That lad’ll be late for his own funeral.’

  ‘So long as he’s not late for the revolution, mind,’ Roy said, in earnest faith.

  ‘Don’t set your bloody alarm clock.’

  ‘I told Paulie every decent socialist has got to be ready, to man the barricades, marra...when the big moo-ment of the revolution finally arrives.’ The Darlow radical grew misty eyed.

  ‘He’ll spoil everyone’s big day,’ I joked.

  ‘Away man!’ Roy covered his mouth to disguise hilarity. However furious with Paulie, he could savour the absurdity of his antics: at least until the revolution came. ‘I hope you’re wrong about that, marra. I don’t wanna put our Paulie up against the wall. Paulie’s always done his best to be a good socialist, mind.’

  However, I didn’t share Roy’s confidence about Paulie’s Scarlet Pimpernel proclivities.

  Something positive, because next minute we gave a jump, as the club’s PA came live. House lights dipped and flickered, and Fenton faded out his final Damned record. Roy and I exchanged uneasy looks of suspense: was Viscous Kittens finally ready? Had Wellington found the motivation for his big moment of pop destiny? Or was Mortal Wound planning to come on early? Butterflies entered my stomach; bloody huge ones like those that hatch out and flutter all around the Amazon.

  ‘Can it really be him?’ I peered towards the stage and wondered.

  ‘More likely Marty found a diff’rent support act, marra.’

  The atmosphere spiked with frustration and violence, Dennis MacDonald dared to stick his neck out. The percussionist seemed fully relaxed, with his swinging stride, and settled comfortably behind the kit. Giving a quick warm-up on those skins, getting a feel for the acoustics; giving some testing kicks on the bass drum, with a bit of tinkling around of snares and symbols; Dennis finally got the show underway. The place was hopping immediately. Dennis had the groove and a blissful look.

  Steve Fenton had played for heavy rock and even HM groups, such as Hammer Blow or Sturm Troop. So at first these Caribbean poly-rhythms had been a challenge to him.

  Kittens started with an instrumental percussion track - an anxious extended-play B side. Fiona offered support to Dennis by smashing a tambourine. But she couldn’t avoid a beer shampoo from some of Dove’s fascists.

  Anna-kissed came on next and plugged in her rhythm guitar. One by one, three backing singers wandered on stage. These were Paulie’s erotic conquests from the previous fortnight. I knew them by sight - and a few polite words over toast and cornflakes. Did Anna-kissed realise how her ‘band mates’ had been recruited? Judging by her willingness to appear that night, she didn’t yet. When she finally did Viscous Kittens wouldn’t last any longer than their original one-night stand. That was even before Herb got wind of the episode, so that he would, literally, search the whole town in search of Paulie, intending to get his balls in a pair of hot curling tongs.

  But had Paulie turned up, after all?

  Anna-kissed played with her back rounded and turned against the mob. You couldn’t doubt her pluck, even if musically she was breaking her nails and was lost in dub space.

  The Viscous Kittens were dunked in spit and beer, and in danger of drowning. Except that punk bands were not easily defeated. Getting canned off, abused and spat at, was an accolade. Maybe that was less obvious for a reggae fusion band. Anyhow, after the first number, Anna-kissed unplugged her instrument and stalked off in fury. Obviously she didn’t think Paulie was going to show up. The group’s sound held without her in-put, because she was hardly competent. Dennis was longing for the glory days of The Kingston Klingons, even in the roughest dance hall. The drummer was a pro and he’d finish their set and collect his pay, even if it nearly killed him.

  The thing was, just as we gave up, completely against the odds, Wellington showed. Suddenly, like an apparition of a flaxen haired Apollo in the wings, or even a Peter Frampton in a spot, he jumped up on that stage and was cavorting with his group and groupies.

  ‘Fuck me, comrade, if it isn’t ou
r Paulie!’ Roy declared - suddenly animated. Instead of a communist clenched fist, he was pointing in disbelief.

  ‘Can it really be true?’ I wondered.

  ‘Ai, I reckon so, marra. It’s hard to believe m’eyes, but it’s him aw-right!’

  ‘It’s a miracle!’

  ‘Ai, it’s hard to credit. Just don’t go believing in all that religious mumbo-jumbo, comrade.’

  ‘He must’ve warmed up his feet.’

  ‘What’s the daft ba’stad doing, mind?’ Roy said.

  Our eyes boggled at the prancing, bespectacled figure of our Paulie. He was doing a weird dance in a blouse-like costume - and no trousers. It was his idea of getting punk and being original, only with a hippie hangover. His vocals were a ‘heavy breathing down the phone’ style. The distorted sensual noise was produced by puckering those cherubic lips too close to the microphone. The lyrics had a peace love and understanding slant to them. It was like Donovan had turned into a punk. Afterwards lads argued that Paulie had a lot of guts to get up there. But Paulie compared himself to Marley, Dylan or Lennon (depending on his audience).

  The other Kittens were just relieved to have a vocalist and finally to play a proper gig. Wellington was their front man, pluses and minuses, and he took a blizzard of spit and some plastic pint pots on the chin.

  Not even the fascists knew how to categorise him. Some took him as an iconoclastic Hindi mystic.

  ‘What’s the daft bast’ad wearing mind?’ The Smith marvelled.

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t say,’ I replied. Probably my mouth was hanging open like a shark knocked on the head.

  Apart from that hippie blouse, the reporter wasn’t wearing much. He’d got a brand new pair of red Doc Marten’s boots - I’d enviously noticed the box at home- and he had his skinny white legs poking out of those. His silky hair was streaked with red dye and pushed up. The colour had to be washable type, because he was afraid of upsetting Beer Belly and Back Slapper at the office. For them CND, punk rock (and all things deviant or lefty) was worse than the Masons or the Klan.

  ‘What’s he trying to do? Prancing around, looking like that?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, marra,’ Roy told me, shaking his tangled mop in amazement.

  ‘This is bloody terrible,’ I remarked.

  ‘Ai man, he doesn’t seem to have much of a clue. Not a clue, marra.’

  Roy’s breathing became worse. This time it wasn’t just a smoky atmosphere.

  Responding to the audience, Dennis recovered his percussive touch. He had amazing talent on those skins and rims. Steve got the swing of the sound and put down some vital bass lines. Anna returned on stage and there was space to make a few creative mistakes. Only the presence of those cooing and crooning backing singers was risible. The Supremes they were not.

  Paulie was far too passionate with the mic. And his songs caused distress and confusion to many people. The words were disguised by extreme volume and bottom-end vibration.

  Rasta, rude boy, the rebel

  Out on the streets at night

  Gettin in to the fights

  For love and justice mighty

  Just trying to make the peace!

  Oh, Rasta, rude boy, rebel

  Looking for love and light

  The racists full of spite

  Kicks you in the balls

  Home to bed you crawl!

  Oh, Rasta, rude boy, rebel

  Get to reach your heaven

  Make the socialist decision

  Give the world a hug

  Kiss your girl on the rug!

  If he was terrible, could it have been in a sublime way? Like Deborah Harry’s blonde streak or Joey Ramone’s trousers? The local punks had to work out where they stood. It was too early for me to write a review. If Wellington got the band on the John Peel show, it could be a clincher.

  At the end of ‘Rude boy Rebel’ Viscous Kittens segued into a more experimental number, incorporating dub effects.

  Decibel! Decibel!

  Feel the vibration

  Punk and reggae nation!

  Decibel! Massive decibel!

  Shake me to ma foundations

  White and black dub stations

  Decibel, oh big decibel!

  Get my people high

  Sexy revolution style!

  A final ‘decibel’ resounded and ricocheted, as the Kittens ran out of any more tunes to play. Paulie would need to sit down at the kitchen table and sweat out a few more tracks for them.

  Viscous Kittens didn’t get too much rough treatment by punk rock standards. Maybe it was a case of confused musical identity for them, or just - in Paulie Wellington’s case - confused identity.

  22. Mortal Rocked

  Meanwhile (stage rear) Mortal Wound was in the middle of yet another bust up. Even while he was on stage (where you’d think he’d be harmless) Wellington was having a wrecking influence on Nulton’s punk rock community.

  Herb refused to play music (or anything) with Anna-kissed. They’d been an item from their first year at college. To other students and teenagers they seemed like an inseparable couple, always together. That was until Wellington’s and her eyes met across a sprung dance floor. Moments later they were making back to her place. Her parents were away on a golfing weekend. Herb was occupied at a Hairdressers’ convention in Hartlepool.

  In the ramshackle dressing room, Herb was smarting, ‘Why are you sleeping with that blonde sensation? He puts highlights into his hair, by the way. You didn’t think it had natural lights, did you? I never want to play with you again!’

  She gave an outraged and confused laugh. ‘Stick your bass right up your bum!’

  ‘Why do you have to shag that idiot? What’s wrong with a bit of loyalty?’ the bassist objected. ‘We’ve been together so long. I trusted you. Couldn’t you resist?’

  ‘We’re not The Carpenters,’ Anna-kissed told him.

  ‘They were siblings!’

  ‘C’mon lads, cut out all the feckin arg-ments. We’ve still got a gig to play or did you forget!’ Billy objected. Grabbing his towels and rubbing his hands in talcum powder, the band’s mighty drummer was ready to roll.

  The musical couple didn’t give a middle-eight for such advice. Herb didn’t yet grasp the truth that Paulie never stayed long with any of his girlfriends. One night stands were his usual score. By the next morning these girls were already as much toast as what they were eating. Roy and I knew it, because obviously, we’d often join them at the table. It was almost a ‘fact of life’ that our cherubic superstar had the erotic memory of a swatted mosquito. So if Herb could just forgive and forget that incident Mortal didn’t need to suffer. The scandal would blow over quicker than a Ramones song –only less memorably!

  The rest of the group was caught up in their row for a while. The entire Mortal come-back gig was put at risk.

  ‘What we gunna do?’ Nutcase agonised. ‘We an’t got a band no more.’

  ‘No sweat Nut. We’ll go out and abuse the audience. Maybe we’ll have another riot,’ Stan argued, smirking and strumming.

  ‘Any more broight ideas from you now, Stan bay?’

  He could have devised a new line-up, exploiting Gina’s multi-musical talents. Sadly, while the punk pair was in crisis, Sour Cat was busy getting wrecked upstairs. Nulton’s answer to Joni Mitchell was busy pouring more petrol on to the fire. The Smith and I should have kept a closer eye on her.

  At some point Gina remembered that she was in a band, and that they were due to play. Or maybe one of the Hatter’s drunken sexist oafs got a bit too personal. Anyway she staggered in to them, bleary eyed and confused. She got a full blast of teen frustration.

  Snot looked up, ‘Fuck me, if it ain’t Tina Turner.’

  It was a poor tas
te joke, even for Stan.

  ‘Where you been, Gina? Are you going to explain yourself?’ Herb challenged. He was still riled from his romantic duel.

  ‘Clearing my head,’ she proposed. Vodka was written all across her face in original Russian.

  ‘Until you’re out of your skull,’ Anna-kissed complained, in disgust.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘That’s really professional of you, isn’t it,’ Herb told her.

  ‘Professional musicians are killing music,’ Snot said.

  ‘I don’t need to be sober,’ she claimed. ‘To play in this band.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ said Herb.

  ‘My tunes are moronic enough,’ Snot said. ‘So she’s pissed. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Thanks Snot, you’re a gentleman.’

  ‘C’mon, lads. Feckin hurry up, will ya’all, now? We’re got to get out there and play so!’

  ‘Not with me,’ Anna-kissed insisted.

  ‘Without a trained bass player, you’re sunk.’

  ‘You’re a feckin nob you are bay!’

  ‘You need me,’ Herb insisted.

  ‘If you play with Kittens, you’re out,’ Snot told her.

  The band was under severe stress, as the mob awaited. Mortal Wound wasn’t yet so famous as to read about their disasters (as triumphs) in music paper gossip columns.

  ‘I can play the guitar parts. All of them. A piece of cake,’ Gina said to them, gagging and wobbling.

  ‘Just because you can play Flight of the Bumblebee!’

  ‘You’re thinking of taking my place? Didn’t you call me a friend once?’ Anna-kissed said.

  ‘Why don’t you all snog and make up?’ Snot suggested.

  ‘Ai, Gina plays guitar better’n you lads now.’

  ‘Go and lay some more bricks!’

  ‘Feck off.’

  ‘The show goes on,’ Snot said.

  ‘I can’t stand any more a this fuckin arguin,’ Nutcase complained. He covered his ears and slumped on the bench.

  ‘This group isn’t credible without me,’ Herb said.