by Neil Rowland
‘We don’t know the line up yet,’ Stan replied. ‘Gina was meant to be on bass... for last night’s gig. Before she threw herself off the stairs.’
‘She couldn’t help that,’ I argued.
‘No? She could have taken fucking precautions,’ my friend argued.
‘Right, so if Gina’s gonna play bloomin bass for you, then who you got playing on blinkin rhythm guitar?’ Marty challenged.
‘Cat is,’ Nutcase put in, anxiously. ‘Cat’s on rhythm... Int she?’
‘Yeah, I can play rhythm as well,’ Gina told him.
‘Right, no bullshit lads, at the same fucking time?’ Marty remarked, holding the grin of amazement. ‘No bullshit, you telling me she’s got five fucking arms?’
‘Singing and playing together isn’t any problem.’
‘Just no keyboards or lead vocals,’ Snot cut in.
‘She can do backin’ vocals,’ Nutcase suggested.
‘Gord elp us, backing vocals an’ all? I can’t blinkin keep up wi’ you lot. Fair play should I get on the blower and have a chat to those Fleetwood dirty Mac people? See if they want a bloomin new manager. Unless old Les has flown em back from LA already and signed em up to his Red Rooster roster,’ Marty protested.
‘Dunt worry, Mr Gorran,’ Nutcase assured him.
‘Cat isn’t doing the singing. That’s final.’
‘I’m still up for it,’ Gina told their manager.
‘Straight up, I might as well open my blinkin wallet all the fucking way and get Leo Sayer. Fair play, he’d got some blinkin hit albums left in him.’
‘Anna wunt ‘appy,’ Nutcase explained. ‘So she left.’ His massive shoulders shrugged inside the studded leather jacket.
‘She couldn’t hold a note anyway,’ Gina argued. She observed her toes as she wiggled them through the tight sheets.
‘Right, definitely. Straight up, do you have any more fucking toys to throw out of your blinkin pram?’ the rock guru wondered.
‘I fink so, Mr Gorran.’
‘Straight up, Nut, no bloomin good just thinking about it.’
Stan was making a show of ignoring him.
‘Don’t worry, I’m fully committed,’ Gina told them.
‘Good girl,’ Nut told her.
‘Right, definitely, tell me I don’t have to rummage about for your original fucking contract,’ Gorran suggested, pained.
‘No way,’ I said. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t cancel the contract. They’re still viable,’ I argued.
‘We’re up for it,’ Nutcase added.
‘If we agree who’s playing what instrument, then I want to stay,’ she said. Obviously she was in denial about her stage fright.
‘If you don’t throw yourself off a roof,’ Snot told her.
Gina narrowed her slate eyes. Luckily she thought better of it. ‘Look, you want to share some of these chocolates? I got a truck load.’
‘You already scoffed a box,’ Stan pointed out.
‘Help me out,’ she told us. Really she was looking shocked, drained, but much better.
‘Good to see colour back in your cheeks,’ Nut was saying.
‘You lot always put colour into my cheeks.’
‘Usually green and purple.’
Then who should turn up in the ward, but her parents. While we were tucking into the confectionary like Christmas, we saw a middle-aged couple approaching. They had every right, however badly timed. I became even more conscious of the red streaks in my hair. I was naturally an alien with nervous tics too many.
‘Regina? What’s going on here?’ the mother remarked.
What did she think?
24. First Heat of Battle
Marty couldn’t get his hands completely on Gina’s career. In such a way Mortal was cut down to a three-piece. That doesn’t have to imply any loss of creative energy - think of the Jam or, later, the Manics - only Stan’s band wasn’t made that way. It was hard to lose lads such as Herb, Anna-kissed and Gina; a mix of personalities that gave the band their vital ingredients, however volatile. Somehow the group didn’t fire without Cat. Everyone was dispirited during this period.
At its lowest ebb Mortal was reduced to a duo, because Nutcase didn’t play any instrument, unless you counted his throat. You couldn’t describe him as being a ‘singer’ exactly, more of a ‘gate mouth shouter’, like Solomon Burke or Clarence Brown, to stretch it a bit.
Even if Snot was against musicianship, he understood that Cat improved the sound and that he was always learning from her.
Over the following weeks Marty returned to the musical drawing board. Not only did he have other artists’ careers to promote, such as Turbo Overdrive, but he had to pay for them. The punk impresario described the condition of Mortal as ‘awful’. But he refused to push the reject button straight away. He decided to wait and see how events developed.
What was happening with Gina, following the accident at the Hatter? Her parents kept her away from the local music scene and us. They locked her up in her chamber music to practice for exams and auditions. She found it easy to turn back into a recluse, obsessed with scores and exercises, to avoid her problem with stage fright.
She suffered dizzy spells and headaches for weeks. She suffered Neil Young style bouts of feedback. The doctor called every day to see how she was. As I’ve said, this gave plenty of excuses to remain at the pianoforte. The doctor, she told me later, said how fortunate she’d been, not to suffer more serious consequences.
Our first sighting of Gina around town came much later. It was like spotting John Lennon walking about Manhattan or Joni Mitchell at her easel. One tea time Roy Smith rushed back from the Inland Revenue office, saying how he’d recognised her, carrying that electric keyboard. Most likely she was on her way to Nulton Arts, to use one of the rehearsal rooms (you could hire a room, if you had some money or hadn’t been expelled). At that time she wouldn’t recognise The Smith, as they hadn’t been properly introduced. Gina didn’t move in the same revolutionary circles as we did.
Then Nutcase bumped into her at the Record Shack one Saturday afternoon. She was pleased to see him, though tight-lipped while flipping through Morten Treble’s new punk singles racks. These reports gave me hope that she’d recapture the original punk spirit, like a gaudy moth around the flame of a disposable lighter.
What else was going on? Marty got his office at the Mad Hatter. I’d regularly rendezvous with him. I began to bash out a first draft of our new Ob-scene fanzine. It was a hard-boiled type of writing environment. The office was a windowless, dingy concrete basement space. It was reached by going along the same hazardous corridor that had upended Gina. Not that we were bothered about the surroundings - it was cool to be underground. We were pleased to have a base, somewhere to work and scheme.
Marty thought I’d want some help to write copy for Ob-scene. He couldn’t find another wanna be rock hack. No one was prepared to write for nothing and sometimes through the night. In that category Paul Bottle was the town’s one-off celebrity music writer. Steve Fenton could hardly knock two sentences together, by his own admission. Marty pressurised him, or verbalised him, to make a contribution. Fenton would agonise for hours over putting together a piece. I’d show some mercy and offer to re-write his interview or review, often returning to his raw interview tape or notebook. That took extra work, which submerged me in my own Alphabet City, letters spinning like the New York Dolls on acid.
Nevertheless I had some brilliant times writing that fanzine. For me it was fun working through the night to meet deadlines. The memory of my brother’s ‘lazy sod’ type insults goaded me on. After dawn had cracked the night I’d meet Marty, enjoying an early breakfast at his favourite cafe’. This was a place called Bet’s Baps, situated down an impossibly narrow (and wonderfully hidden) passageway in Nulton town centre. Ove
r the bacon and eggs we’d continue to discuss how things (musical and literary) were going. Fantastic times these were. I was high from writing and the music, from the caffeine and ideas. Gorran was great company of course, full of the new music, creating a buzz of ambition. I wouldn’t worry about lack of sleep, or tiredness, until a steel door of fatigue finally shut me down, as other people were going to work.
So Marty installed me as Nulton’s version of the New Musical Express - and I had to write like one too. It was hard to keep up with Marty. He could have put Warhol into bed.
***
Like any legendary rock hustler, Marty understood the power and reach of the media. He knew how to play it, to call on it, to spin and manipulate and control it: even if just local media. Yet occasionally, as the fanzine came together, he leant on me to favour Robb and Turbo. It was a rare example of disagreement between us.
‘Bottle mate, why don’t we put my Rob on the first blinkin cover of this ‘zine? Fair play, he really enjoyed those bloomin sleeve notes you wrote up for his debut single. Straight up Bottle, I promised him you’d give this record a proper boost in the first issue, so why not give him a bit of a fucking splash on the front cover? Fair play, so what would you say to that?’
‘We can’t do it. Sounds like favouritism.’
Stubbornly I insisted on writing my own copy, expressing my genuine opinions, without any special favour to his Star Materials artists. Even if they won that EMI record contract, I wouldn’t turn into Truman Capote by hype.
‘Otherwise the fanzine won’t be taken seriously,’ I argued.
Marty would work quietly and with great concentration, alongside me, designing posters, record sleeves, all types of publicity and promotional materials. Really the office contained everything he couldn’t get into his workshop. Most significantly this included a filing cabinet and even a new security box, provided by Crock’s son.
***
Journalism night classes were improving my technique. With my crush on Gina I needed a class on flirting and dating, but of course they didn’t run them in those days.
Unfortunately, not long after moving our ‘zine into the basement office, we suffered a potential bombshell:
‘Here’s an exclusive for you, Bottle. Mortal’s going to split,’ Stan revealed.
‘No!’
‘That’s the way it is.’
‘Don’t go and do that,’ I said, pleading with him.
‘It’s definite. Do you wanna quote?’
‘Give it time. Sort it out. Call a meeting. Talk to each other.’
‘What’s the odds, Bottle? One band splits up and you start another one.’
‘It wouldn’t be the same!’
‘Better!’
‘No, that wouldn’t work.’
‘We’ve got to try, unless we just stop playing.’
‘Have you given up on Gina?’
‘Don’t need her.’
‘You jealous of her?’
‘She can play second piano for the Royal Philharmonic, far as I’m concerned,’ he grumbled.
‘What about the band competition?’
‘Not such a big deal.’
‘Only a bloody record deal.’
‘Who needs that? One of ‘em’s only gonna drown in our swimming pool.’
‘Marty already entered you,’ I objected. ‘He’s paid your entrance fee. You’re not going to let him down?’
‘Steady on, Bottle. Why are you so loyal to the Big Cheese? He owes me more than fifty quid.’
‘You owe him, more like.’
‘You already sound like a fucking journalist.’
‘No, no, that isn’t true. He’s always throwing money at you... and the band! Anyway, don’t you want Mortal signed up to a record label?’
‘I’d rather sign on the fucking dole.’
‘Try something new,’ I suggested.
‘I like the people down there,’ he replied.
‘With an A and R man coming to town, this is Mortal’s big chance. You can make something of the band. Get known. Get a deal,’ I argued. ‘Get reviewed!’
‘You’re spending too much time with that motor mouth. The big cheese. You don’t get it. Neither of you. This... being in a band and stuff... is only a good laugh,’ Snot insisted. ‘Or it used to be.’
I certainly got hot under the dog collar.
***
Not such a ‘good laugh’ if the Royal College of Music had kidnapped Gina Watson. Herb and Anna-kissed were no longer the Sid and Nancy of Nulton’s punk scene. A tense atmosphere reigned at the Mansion - Stan might have cut Paulie with a knife. Especially as the cub reporter was extra cheerful as he got into rehearsals with the Kittens.
The Battle of the Bands progressed in local pubs and other venues, while Mortal was in peril. There wasn’t enough time for Stan to get a new band together, not even during those punk years. Anyway Marty had already entered them as ‘Mortal Wound’ on the council form. The rules were strict about changes of name and personnel, once you’d played in a heat. Luckily Snot was more sensitive about losing face and credibility with his mates and associates. That Nulton music scene was very cliquey, or pathetically small, depending on your point of view.
The venue for Mortal’s first heat was the Pink Dragon. That would be an advantage for our favourite band, because obviously it was their regular haunt. Publican Dougal was himself a punk rock fan who was keen to promote regular gigs. He’d turned the place into a haven for punks and punk bands. Dougal wasn’t intimidated by punks, greasers, Mods or any other youth clan. He’d worked as a lifeguard back in his home town of Perth: he had once rescued a Japanese au-pair from a white shark by punching its nose. For Mortal a gig at the Dragon would be like playing our own living room - just with more reliable floor boards and a higher ambient temperature.
Stan was hostile to big music corporations (after EMI staff had refused to pack Anarchy in the UK and the label eventually dropped Sex Pistols like a hot Halloween pumpkin) but wanted to keep playing ‘music’. We didn’t know what was coming next on the punk scene (as Gina reminded us) and Snot wanted to hang in.
At this point Mortal Wound was reduced to Fenton, Nutcase, Billy and Snot. Arguably you couldn’t spot much ‘star materials’ there. They didn’t have a single girl in the band anymore. The sound wasn’t enough to whet Marty’s musical appetite, assuming it didn’t kill off his taste buds. He asked Steve Fenton to cancel a big job at a skittle hall in Duncehead to play bass for them. At least they wouldn’t embarrass the big-haired pop promoter - or would they?
The Dragon was a medium sized pub. It always had a great atmosphere and (allegedly) acoustics; and the room was packed out with amps, speakers, woofers, sub-woofers, mix desks and greaser-style roadies. When we looked at the running-order we noticed that Snot’s combo was up against Turbo Overdrive, Steel Dildo, Plastic Underpants and Gob.
To my recollection, the competition’s rules allowed each band to play four ‘songs’ in total. Many of them barely had four songs in the repertoire! There was a panel of judges who compared notes and scores. In total there would be ten first heats in the Battle, played over the summer weeks, with the top two groups in each going through. Then there was a discretionary best third place, at the judges’ mercy. At the initial stage there wasn’t any big record company type on duty. The presence of an A&R man (it was always a man then) would be reserved for the grand finale.
The Dragon was crammed with a startling variety of youth cult haircuts and outfits. After just a handful of gigs Mortal Wound had built up their following. There was anticipation, expectation as usual, for any rare gig they played - and that included me.
Despite losing that original line up - re-jigged and reduced - Mortal plugged in and ‘tuned up’, amid an electric mood of anticipation. Stan didn’t fl
inch from crashing into the typical material, including Social Worker, Punk Spunk and Storm the Garden Party. With this band - just to cover deficiencies - Snot had an aggressive, high-volume, almost thrash-metal sound. Stan came across more macho, posturing with that guitar (admittedly a potent weapon in his hands), than I was used to. It was amplified by the bruising figures of Urine, Fenton and Nutcase alongside him, who nearly dwarfed him (apart from the sound).
Even if the crowd did go mad that night; even if musical shortcomings were masked by hormones and rebellion, alcohol and amplification; Mortal were not interesting to Marty and me. The swaggering display did not make up for the loss of their former wit and verve. The reasons for those shortcomings were obvious. They were away in a bedroom somewhere, busy with something else.
All the same, Snot carried it; he was amazing and even put in backing vocals. Billy’s drumming was a demolition ball on a metronome. Fenton was putting down bass lines like slab pathing. We were grateful that a band personality came through. The uninspired chaos of Gob and Plastic Underpants didn’t offer much competition. Admittedly Gob’s usual singer had been taken into detention that week.
So the gig wasn’t low on entertainment. It was splendid punk pandemonium. Dougal was clicking his fingers behind the bar. Unfortunately the anarchistic party was cut short. Musical disaster struck, as Nutcase’s vocal cords snapped. At some point in the third chorus of Garden Party his voice went mid-shriek. His iron throat died in action, like a foghorn thrown into the sea. Suddenly Nut was gulping like a beached whale. Later he admitted to having had a sore throat the previous week, except that - no pun intended - he decided to keep quiet about it. ‘Dint wanna let the band down,’ he croaked, almost in tears. He’d tried some gargling and gentle exercises on his throat. Even so, those vocal cords were shredded as if slashed by a hedge-strimmer.
Nut stared out in despair - over the variegated cuts of the moshing punks before him. The band kept playing for a while. The whole Mortal sound ground to a halt, like a Salvation Army Band marched over the end of a pier. Snot shuffled over to Nut to find out what the problem was. It was pretty obvious to us in the pub. Despair etched into the shouter’s big bumpy face, he had to abandon stage. As we know, Nutcase was a sensitive type of lad.
