Punk Story

by Neil Rowland

  ‘What yer talkin’ about, yer feckin nob!’

  ‘Gina can play bass,’ Stan insisted.

  ‘The fuck will she!’

  ‘She can play a nose-flute,’ Anna-kissed complained.

  ‘You couldn’t even play that,’ Gina cut back.

  ‘Herb and Anna are out of my band.’

  ‘Oh right Stan, maybe we’re going to do that!’ Herb snapped.

  ‘I can cover all the guitar parts,’ Gina explained.

  ‘If you’re playing my guitar bits, then I’m out.’

  ‘She’s out,’ Billy commented.

  ‘Not just out of tune,’ Gina remarked. She giggled.

  ‘Go hang... in your bloody guitar strap.’

  ‘I quit,’ Herb shouted. ‘Did you notice?’

  At the moment of grave crisis and potential eye-gouging, Marty Gorran arrived into the dressing room to sort them out.

  ‘Hello, hello, what the fuck in a tank is this? Straight up you lads, what exactly in the name of blinkin Johnny Cash might be going on in this changing room?’

  The charismatic DJ and hustler projected amiable bafflement. In this situation he came over as the big brother you’d never wish to disappoint.

  ‘We’re breaking up,’ Anna-kissed said, looking away.

  ‘Gord ‘elp us, are you gonna explain this to me, cos how do you expect me to arrange a big tour on the blinkin London pub circuit, if you’re busy cutting your own bloomin throats?’

  Marty threw the great rock ‘n’ roll swindle at them. Suddenly the Mortal members were looking about in shame, fiddling nervously, avoiding his gaze and each other’s.

  ‘Right, definitely, then why don’t you lot get your blinkin instruments and get on bloomin stage? No bullshit, before those psychotic punks wreck the place and Dave Crock’s got my bloomin guts for his bedroom curtains,’ he said, with a warning grin.

  In fact Crock was standing out in the Music Box at that moment. He’d find himself out of pocket and in a vengeful mood if his DJ cancelled. The consequences were more unpredictable than the punk rock movement itself.

  Neither Herb nor Anna had any sympathy for Gorran’s troubles, as they promptly left the dressing room, going in separate directions (for a while).

  ***

  Snot remained in confident and smug mood, while trying a new opening riff. He knew that Gina could pick up any stray bass line from Herb. He was eager to try Uncle Luigi’s guitar on a live audience. Although Nutcase was upset by this rumpus, he would soon start to relax. Billy Urine knew how to relieve tension by smacking the lights out of his skins. They all wanted to keep Mortal alive and possibly Marty too. It was all about taking the cue, striking an opening chord and jumping in to scissor kicks.

  After a stressful set with Viscous Kittens, Steve Fenton offered to lend his bass to Gina. In readiness Billy flexed his rippling arms and exposed the iron filings of his bare chest. Gina was wearing ripped fishnets, a Lurex ‘space girl’ blouse and a pink tutu that failed to cover her arse. Quickly and clumsily she touched up her cosmetics and hairstyle. She had no time to sober up, so she was well and truly smashed. I wondered if this was representative of classical music: even if they knew how to sit still.

  Some hardened musicians could play well drunk. So to speak, they took it all in their stride. Stan and I frequently caught punk acts doing it badly. It could be entertaining to watch a shambolic band, new or established. I wasn’t sure how Sour Cat was going to cope. We’d never seen her playing rock music live. But after all this was a punk group.

  It happens that, when performers leave the Hatter’s artists’ dressing room (rudimentary as it was) to make for the Music Box stage, they needed to negotiate a long, ill-lit and cluttered corridor. Gina was following behind the others in that direction, very dizzy with booze and (worse) turning rigid with stage fright.

  Snot noticed her lagging behind. ‘Hurry up Gina,’ he called. ‘You’ll be late for the encores.’ Snot being nerveless on stage, he was taking the lead; his hunched gait in shadow and that guitar slung over his shoulder like a rifle.

  What happened was, at this point, Gina’s stiletto heel got caught at the top of a set of steps. As she was straggling, none of the other lads could rush to break her fall. Tumbling down in a clatter of limbs, the back of her head struck the last concrete step.

  There was a sickening thwack. Startled, the rest of the band turned to see her, in a heap. Gina was crumpled and the borrowed bass was snapped in two. To begin with they feared she’d broken her neck or something. It looked as bad as that. Their panicked voices echoed into the dingy corridor.

  ‘Tawk to us, Gina,’ Nutcase urged. The giant shouter was down on his knees, cradling her, squeezing her miniature hands (compared to his).

  ‘Oh jeysus! Speak to us, Gina, will yer!’ Billy despaired.

  ‘Right, definitely you lot, no bullshit, what you doing fucking loitering back here? Fair play, there’s a gig to play tonight,’ Gorran called, as he rushed to investigate.

  ‘It’s Gina, Marty, she’s taken a nasty bump to ‘er ‘ead,’ Nutcase explained.

  ‘Gord elp us, and it’s no bloomin wonder is it, when she’s been knocking back that blinkin orange juice. No bullshit, like all the fruit farms got fucking frostbite,’ he pointed out. ‘Why didn’t one of you punks keep a weather bloomin eye on her up there?’ he complained, kneeling down to the side of his stricken musical genius.

  The band was too occupied in trying to revive her.

  ‘No bullshit, somebody go and call a blinkin ambulance,’ Marty concluded.

  ***

  Unnecessary to report, there was no Mortal Wound revival that night. Marty had to call on Turbo Overdrive as last-minute replacement. Lucky that Turbo’s vocalist, Rob Shaw, was in the venue. Along with the group’s guitar hero, Spike Murray, he agreed to play a set. The heavy rock duo teamed up with Billy and Steve. Together they formed a decent scratch group.

  The sudden change didn’t impress punks, suede heads, casuals, Goths or even fascists for that matter. They’d all turned out to see the return of Wound. The regular Hatter drunks and psychos didn’t care who was on, so long as they got some entertainment. Dave Crock couldn’t distinguish one wall of white noise from another. It didn’t matter so long as he collected enough door money. His snooker men threw a group of Casuals out through the back fire escape (hauling them up to the second floor first), when they dared to ask for a refund.

  A rumour spread about how Snot had taken a heroin overdose and collapsed before the gig. To my knowledge he never tried that drug or scotched the rumour. The local music cognoscenti related how he’d been rushed to hospital for a clean-up.

  A make-shift Turbo Overdrive wasn’t as slick as usual. The gig was too loud for audience complaints. Like a jumbo jet warming up in a tiled bathroom, technical problems were masked. Spike and Rob always put on a hilarious show. They didn’t leave their macho moves and camp routines at home. I wasn’t in the venue to watch them at that point.

  Turbo was another Star Materials act entered into the Battle of the Bands. They had a decent chance of winning. They intended to blow the local opposition away. They took their Led Zep, Hawkwind, Sabbath and Purple influences at high velocity.

  No, you couldn’t dismiss their chances. We feared that Mortal Wound was finished after Gina’s bad accident. They would be forced to go back to their day jobs or get a grant for university or, more likely, sign back on to the dole queue.

  23. Cat Hospital

  If not for youth culture in Nulton the emergency services would have been out of work. Paramedics swooped on the club and didn’t even pay a fiver to get in. The snooker men stood back for a while.

  We managed to bring the punk princess back around. After checking on her senses, the ambulance crew lifted and moved her, with a baby blanket over her lu
rid outfit. Gina’s face seemed to be a narrow mask of pain. My heart fell into my boots at the sight.

  Turbo Overdrive were already on stage as replacement headliners. Their heavy rock pounded the entire building, in a soundtrack to our panic. Gina was taken out on a stretcher and slid into the waiting ambulance. The medic team climbed back with her and whisked her away to the punk repair shop. As a siren bounced and faded around the downtown district, all the voyeurs slowly returned inside the Hatter. In the end there was only me standing out there, staring down the street after her, at the receding siren and lights.

  The following day Gorran organised a hospital visit. I arranged to meet him beforehand at his workshop. As usual his workplace was crammed with signs in progress, paints and inks, paper and card, tools and materials. I always associated our friendship with those materials and the pungent smell of Cow’s Gum glue. Locking up shop early we set off to pick up the others.

  Marty, Snot, Nutcase and me turned up at the Prince of Wales’ Nulton and Duncehead General Hospital, right on cue for evening visiting time. Out of the Mortal posse only Billy Urine was absent. Billy had got well-paid work on a new housing site. In those days Irishmen still worked on building sites, rather than web sites. Of course Herb and Anna-kissed were off in a huff, bothering the manager with late calls. Nutcase didn’t soften his style for the visit; he turned up in bondage trousers, chunky dog collar and that green Mohican, which made him look about seven feet tall. His dog’s collar was another luxury accessory from Boots the chemist: Boot’s did have a pets department in those days. Nut would pop in to make his purchase, even in normal work clothes, after knocking off early. He went up to Pets’ (they didn’t stock actual live animals) and picked a nice chunky canine collar. The assistant asked, ‘Can I put that into a bag for you, young man?’ ‘Ah, no fanks, it’s all right,’ Nut explained. ‘I’m gonna wear it now.’

  The Mortal crew created a stir at hospital reception. Obviously doctors and nurses hadn’t got much direct experience of punks. Only what had been filtered through the tabloid press, Nationwide or the Bill Grundy dust up, like everybody else. Or what was beginning to file through A&E at weekends. Luckily they remembered how Gina had been dressed on arrival.

  Marty had his eccentricities, which always made people sit up a bit or startle. On the other hand he did have a proper day job - he worked and made something for a living. He applied those winning grins to reassure the hospital staff. He knew how to turn the schmooze to full volume. Not even the NHS could resist Marty’s rock ‘n’ roll charisma. He gave them the idea that he could run the health service better than anyone. He’d got all the self-confidence, the know-how and the contacts. So they let him pass, and us lot with him.

  We set off down a big mixed ward, which had that whispering tea-trolley atmosphere. Our assorted appearance turned heads and froze conversations. People were gawping at us, digging elbows into each other. The reaction was either fear or laughter, as we picked off the aisle and passed by.

  We found Gina in one of those iron framed beds of the period, with bedclothes like stationary. Her head was turbaned up like a Sikh. She was even paler than usual, very tired, black-eyed - not from cosmetics. Her greyish blue eyes opened as our arrival stirred her attention.

  ‘Hello, hello, Gina love. Straight up, we all popped down to the hospital together to find out how you’re fucking doing,’ Marty said in greeting.

  And he posted himself at the foot of her military bed. He radiated more caring authority than Consultants on their rounds.

  ‘Glad you could come,’ she told us, meekly.

  ‘How yer doing?’ Stan asked, hunched and sniffling. They’d amputated the guitar from his hands for a few hours.

  ‘Break a leg!’ Cat told him.

  ‘Ow yer doin?’ Nutcase wondered, shuffling closer, blocking the view.

  ‘Not too bad, Nut. Kind of you to ask. But I’m getting a bit of a headache.’

  ‘Right, definitely Gina, never mind that, you gave us all a blinkin heart attack last night. No bullshit, why’d you want to throw yourself off the top of the fucking stairs like that?’

  ‘I’m feeling a lot better,’ she said pointedly.

  ‘Do you remember anything about it?’ I asked.

  Gina’s lovely gaze burnt a hole through me. ‘Not much, Bottle. I only came around this morning. I just remembered... picking up Steve’s bass... leaving the dressing room and walking into the corridor... at the Hatter... nothing else! Except now I have a big lump on the back of my head. You can’t see it under this. I felt sick when I opened my eyes...’

  ‘Right definitely, Gina, so did that paranoid little doctor back there give you any idea when you can start blinkin gigging again?’

  ‘Are you serious or what?’ She jolted up in protest.

  ‘No bullshit, am I blinkin serious? Straight up, when we got this big London pub tour with Doctor Feelgood and the Rods on the bloomin horizon? When we need to get this blinkin little punk band on the road again, quicker than Frank Sinatra can change his suit.’

  ‘I’m much better, Marty, thanks for asking,’ she said. She bounced on the mattress a bit. And hospital mattresses didn’t have much bounce then.

  ‘She just needs to change her bandages,’ Snot suggested. ‘Or sprinkle a bit of blood on them.’

  Gorran conducted her from the bottom of the metal bed. ‘Right, definitely, I’d already got all these big name fucking promoters lined up. No bullshit, Gina love, we’re all excited to see where you’ll go next. Straight up, we all want to see you ‘op back out of that hard bed quick as bloomin possible.’

  ‘Well, okay. Let’s see how it goes.’

  ‘I ‘eard you walkin’ be’ind me. Next minute... I looked back. Your ‘igh eels in the fuckin air,’ Nutcase recalled, shaking his intimidating crest.

  Nut hadn’t slept all night. He was sensitive, he felt everything keenly; except when he was performing under a hail of missiles and spit.

  ‘When I woke up again, it was like the Screamers had been playing in my head all night,’ Gina told us.

  ‘Right, definitely, that would explain almost everything,’ Gorran agreed, with a laugh.

  ‘I could hardly put my head on the pillow,’ she said.

  ‘Not surprising. We thought you’d gone and croaked on us,’ Snot remarked.

  ‘You was out cold. We was worried,’ Nut pursued.

  ‘She still looks very pale and tired, doesn’t she,’ I added.

  My friends all gave me a certain look.

  ‘Right, definitely Bottle, but our Gina always looking blinkin pale,’ Marty reminded me. ‘Straight up, that’s her bloomin style.’

  ‘Lucky I only fell on the back of my head,’ Gina joked.

  ‘Right, definitely.’

  ‘Anyway, you’re looking brilliant now,’ I said.

  Immediately I regretted having made that comment.

  Nevertheless she managed, ‘Thanks, Bottle. I’ve definitely got my head screwed on,’ she added.

  We all attempted to find some levity in the remark.

  ‘When are they going to discharge you?’ I asked.

  She was looking brighter, while enjoying hiding under covers. ‘The doctor told me I’m under observation. I should stay in a bit longer.’

  It wasn’t music to the pop guru’s ears. ‘Straight up, I don’t care about that, cos you gotta watch these blinkin handsome young doctors, waltzing around these wards just wanting somebody to fucking practice on,’ Marty warned.

  ‘Sorry Marty, no band practice tonight,’ she told him.

  ‘Right, definitely, so what’s the point of me booking Mortal in for a week at the Marque Club with X Ray Specs? No bullshit, what’s blinkin Eddie and the Hot Rods going to say?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Marty. Do me a favour,’ she objected. She threw ano
ther chocolate into the black circle of her mouth.

  Nutcase blushed and looked around in embarrassment.

  ‘She lost consciousness,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Yeah, not her fucking voice,’ Snot said.

  ‘No bullshit Snot, without Gina your group got as much hope as a three legged donkey at a fucking greyhound track,’ Gorran argued, suffering a facial tremor.

  ‘Any roads, Gina’s lookin’ better, int she,’ Nutcase insisted.

  Gina had pulled the crisp sheet up to her pointy chin. ‘I told you, I’m still under close observation. I’m not coming out yet.’

  ‘Gord elp us, so how long does this go on for? Fair play, drugged up to the fucking eye balls and confined to your bloomin bed. Cos, no bullshit love, you’re led there like Marianne Fateful waiting for the fucking Stones to come back home,’ he warned.

  ‘Leave off, Marty. I’m not drugged up. Just a few pain killers.’

  ‘Right, definitely, and that’s what she said as well.’

  ‘You gonna drag her out of bed?’ Stan said. ‘What you going to do?’

  ‘Give her more time to recover,’ I suggested.

  Marty had a big inky hand on each nob of the bed end. ‘Right, definitely, and what’s going on with Herb and Anna-kissed? Fair play, when I got Herb blinkin bitching about how she’s gone orf with another bloke. Straight up, and Gina and Stan are pushing him about?’ Marty asked.

  ‘They resigned and I accepted,’ Stan said.

  ‘No bullshit, what’s all this blinkin baloney about Anna-kissed sleeping with that bloomin reporter lad in another group? Straight up, Herby claims she picked him up in the Looking Glass the other night.’

  ‘Herb’s definitely out of the group,’ Snot stated.

  ‘That would be Paulie, wouldn’t it?’ I considered.

  ‘No bullshit, get all these names sorted out. Gord elp us, I’ll have to get on the phone to Abba next,’ he objected, revealing the gnashers. ‘Right, definitely, so who’s playing blinkin bass in future?’ Gorran asked, snapping some facial muscles under the tension.