by Neil Rowland
He’d been present for the birth; very present, in studded dog collar and bondage trousers. Sadly he didn’t change his mind about leaving Mortal.
‘Doctor said I still got nodules on me froat. Sorry lads. Scares the shit out of me... losin’ me voice.’
‘Come back when you want,’ Snot said.
‘I was up on stage singin’ and nuffin came out. I felt like a cockerel with grease up its arse,’ Nut recalled.
‘What happens to a cockerel... when it’s got grease up its arse?’ I wondered.
‘Same fing as ‘appened to me,’ Nutcase cut back.
‘What did you think he means, Bottle?’ Stan said.
Anyway we were all thrilled at Little Nut’s first gig.
The semi-finals of the Battle of the Bands were fast approaching. Snot was trying to find new ‘musicians’. Reluctantly Snot was wrestling with lead vocals himself. As a self-taught musician he struggled to combine singing with playing. Recently he’d received a formal letter from Spiro’s confirming that he’d lost his apprenticeship (as a technical designer). Obviously that was weighing on his mind. Even if he didn’t discuss the matter, dark thoughts about ‘failure’ were playing over and over in his mind like a crackly old LP on repeat; like Nick Drake, Tim Buckley or even Van Gogh or somebody.
Gorran wasn’t in an up-beat mood either. The traumatic memory of Archie’s jaws still gave him waking nightmares. Marty didn’t abandon his plans for global domination, understanding that the music business was defined by hits and misses (like Phil Spector) although this was a setback.
Furthermore (in the guise of Hercules Poirot) our criminal investigation was on-going - even into the dark. It soon took an unexpected turn and I was called as an expert witness.
‘Right, definitely Bottle, come back to my place afterwards, will you, cos I’ve got something blinkin important to show you. Don’t worry, you blinkin herbert, you can keep your bloomin trousers on this time,’ he objected. ‘Straight up, who’d fancy you anyway?’ he joked affectionately.
‘Nothing planned,’ I admitted.
So we took another ride out in his Sunbeam. We drove past the entrance to Electromax UK, where my dad and brother worked, probably on night shift - giving everything they’d got.
We arrived at the council estate, even driving by Les’s rusty Cadillac. Marty had a nice flat above a laundrette (it was quiet at night time). The pop maverick reversed up into a space at the parade, with numerous mechanical jerks and rethinks. Going backwards wasn’t his strong point. Jolting into a position he hopped out and led the way, in his knobbly, gawky way, up outside concrete steps that lead to a blustery open corridor, towards a line of front doors.
Marty had his flat looking stylish, moodily lit, with a flair for colour and design. Every shelf and niche was packed with his record collection; and items of rock ‘n’ roll memorabilia. It was the first time I’d been invited to Marty’s place to see this. The effect was instant fascination, which added to Marty’s glamour and wisdom.
Punk enthusiasts like Marty were obsessed with 1950s rock singers and artists. Snot also considered the early rock ‘n’ rollers as authentic and rough edged. The punks went back to the essential ingredients of rock, as if bands could start again, ditching bullshit, pretension and multi-tracking. They wanted something raw and immediate, simple and direct, capturing the new generations.
What did I notice in particular around Marty’s pop pad? As well as screen prints of Iggy, Bowie, Lou Reed, the Velvets and the Dolls, Marty also had big prints of young Presley, Gene Vincent, Little Richard, all along walls and shelves. Marty could talk about these artists with passion, and mixed their classic tracks into his punk nights.
‘Right, definitely, make yourself at home, Bottle. I’ll fix us both a cup of bloomin tea, before I explain what this meeting is all about. Fair play, I know you don’t drink much and we’ll both need blinkin clear heads for all this,’ he argued, in a sardonic tone.
‘This is a proper mystery,’ I told him, settling.
The pop genius was posed in the arch before his kitchen. ‘Straight up, it’s all about as clear as bloomin alphabet soup in a puddle of vomit,’ he admitted, pulling his wiry mop into better shape.
On returning with our brews - his mug was Sweet, mine was Slade - he kneeled to mess around with his video machine. He pushed a tape into the new player - VHS state of the art.
‘Straight up, it’s been giving me blinkin nightmares,’ he warned. ‘Gord elp us, what with that ferocious mutt and these videos, my blinkin nerves are bloomin all shredded,’ he admitted, contorting his spongy night-club features.
‘You’ve got more info on the break-in?’ I wondered.
Gorran went and switched on an oil lamp (straight from the Co-op home department). The soft pink light turned his big hair into a coral reef. Twitchily, he reached over to a new pack of ciggies and tore away the cellophane wrap. He seemed full of a dread of anticipation, while putting a death-stick into his Mae West moosh. He lit up using a chunky US lighter which had been a gift from Les. He dragged exotically, and waved it around like Liz Taylor gossiping to Lizza Minelli at a top New York nightspot.
At last the strip of video tape ran through spacings and symbols. With hisses and crackles, boiling dots and streaking lines, the ‘movie’ began to settle into a definite picture.
‘A pirate version of Rocky?’ I quipped.
‘Straight up you couldn’t watch anything more fucking rocky than this,’ he warned.
Elvis Presley gazed petulantly from the wall, Gene Vincent had a similar sullen look. Little Richard was scandalised, even as he enjoyed the joke.
I shuffled on the rock maverick’s white leather armchair. ‘So when’s the action going to start?’
‘Gord elp us, Bottle, why don’t you have a bit of blinkin patience?’
Then it all came up, between smoke, pink lighting and the steam of our tea. Honest, I was glad I didn’t have anything else to choke on.
A hand-held camera zoomed in and out of shot. In crude racks of focus the image changed perspective. It required a few seconds for me to determine what was in the scene. Obviously it was one of those blue movies. I’d heard about them.
‘What are they up to?’ I called out.
Our pop guru squinted through his smoke. ‘Fair play, give it a few more bloomin minutes to settle,’ he chastised.
Recently I’d been disturbed by erotic dreams about Gina. I didn’t know what to do about them. On the following days I’d be tortured by them. Why didn’t some of Paulie’s confidence rub off on me?
I sensed that Marty’s interest in Rob Shaw wasn’t just musical - I wasn’t that naive. In fact the punk promoter didn’t even like heavy metal as a genre. I didn’t want to pry into their relationship. What they did in the privacy of their homes, in a locked dressing room, or on a last minute holiday was their affair. They were mates of mine.
‘I can’t make it out,’ I admitted. ‘The picture’s a bit fuzzy.’
Erratic camera work refocused towards male forms that were writhing and cavorting on a bed.
‘Straight up, Bottle, next up you’ll be asking me for blinkin popcorn,’ Gorran said. ‘Why don’t you try to blinkin concentrate? Don’t you have any fucking smart rock writer’s ideas?’
‘Who do you think I am? Roland Barthes?’ I enjoyed making this obscure reference.
Scratchy frames of the amateur flick lit on my pupils. The lens sharpened gradually to expose the centre of action, which included a huge flabby form that resembled a boiled walrus.
‘Fuck me, isn’t that Troy Crock!’
‘Right, definitely, mind your French, while you’re in my blinkin house,’ Gorran remarked.
‘Is this shot in Troy’s house? That’s the bedroom we broke in to, isn’t it? What’s Troy up to? Oh, horrible!’ I said. I’d picked up a cus
hion and half covered my eyes with it. This was much worse than Doctor Who.
‘Straight up Bottle, a penny for your blinkin thoughts,’ Marty ticked me off. ‘Fair play, behave yourself, cos a regular writer for blinkin Music Mail ought to have a decent opinion about any type of movie.’
‘I only write reviews on music,’ I pointed out.
‘No bullshit, maybe I would have invited Barry fucking Norman back here to give his bloomin review instead,’ he commented.
‘How am I supposed to understand all this? Disgusting.’
‘Fair play, as a music writer, do you have any blinkin idea what this porn flick has to do with our blinkin stolen loot?’ he agonised.
‘This is disgusting.’
‘Straight up, which fucking monastery did you come out of?’
‘What’s on all the other tapes?’ I wondered.
‘Just blinkin sequels to this one! What did you bloomin think?’
‘Is Troy Boy in all of them?’
‘Straight up, Nulton’s male version of fucking Emmanuelle,’ he grimaced.
A few scenes later I got another shock, when I also recognised the form of Mick Dove. His smooth skinny torso was captured there on 8mm (the film was transferred to video). They had no more bodily secrets than top brass Nazis sharing a bunker together.
‘As I bloomin suspected, Bottle, and I reckon I’ve seen his horrible blinkin mug around the Hatter before now.’
‘He’s the singer in that Steel Dildo. You know, the suede-head band that got third position in their heat.’
‘Straight up, those bloomin boot boys? Thanks to one of those fucking bent judges anyway.’
‘The same,’ I confirmed.
‘Fair play, I wouldn’t want to wake up with that fucking creepy crop-head lying next to me under the bloomin covers.’ The punk maverick gave a shudder, which concluded with a shivering drag on his ciggie.
‘Me neither, Marty. Dove moves in far right circles. He hates Stan, you know. He’s a troublemaker when Mortal plays. Provokes fights whenever they have a gig. And I recognise some of his mates there.’
‘Straight up, that’s all blinkin useful information. Only, no bullshit Bottle, I’m still scratching my blinkin head, trying to figure out the link between this and our stolen band money.’
‘I can’t work it out either,’ I admitted.
‘Straight up, what’s this bloomin fascist orgy got to do with the break-in at Star Materials headquarters?’
‘Better get the Washington Post on this one,’ I said.
‘Right, definitely Bottle, you get all the blinkin expert guidance you need. Fair play, make some notes and talk to people, cos we need all the fucking assistance we can blinkin muster to solve this crime.’
‘I want to go home now,’ I said. ‘Can you turn this off?’
‘Right, so I don’t want to upset you with fucking Troy ‘deep throat’ Crock on his four poster.’
‘What’s the next move?’
‘Straight up, Fenton and me had better go and have another bloomin talk with Troy. No bullshit, I’ll let him know I’ve been watching these vids.’
‘Is it a clever idea?’ I said, pulling on my Oxfam coat.
‘Straight up, I reckon it’s our only hope to confront him and hear what he’s got to say. No bullshit, use these blue movies as a bargaining chip. Otherwise Star Materials goes down the blinkin toilet without a bloomin rudder,’ he warned, indelicately.
‘Thanks for asking me over,’ I said.
It wasn’t the best late night screening I’d attended.
***
While nosing around the Record Shack one Saturday - during my lunch ‘hour’ - I stumbled into Mick Dove. On other days Snot and I would be in there searching for vinyl together. After buying an LP or a few singles - as much as we could afford - we’d go off to a favourite Asian delicatessen. We’d sit at the front window, discussing our purchases, taking tea and fruity Asian confectionary, which resembled slabs of coloured ice.
The Record Shack was the town’s only outlet for independent punk releases, as we know. The chain stores wouldn’t yet touch punk records; either they didn’t get the scene or have contacts with independent companies. Not until punk began to move into the mainstream and develop more commercial offshoots. Morton Treble stocked every label or release he could get hold of (from the independent distributors) and those obscurities, to which local punks referred him. In addition the shop displayed promotional material for local gigs. And Milton sold advance tickets from the counter. The shop was a massively useful resource for the local music scene, if you were starting a band or just interested in going along.
Morton was an unlikely punk fan, slight and gnomic, with the expression of a frightened mouse. He must have been considerably older than us (or so we thought) wearing a pointed beard and being partial to baggy sweaters. We could never work out if his enigmatic young assistant, Siobhan, was his daughter, niece, girlfriend or even his wife (we were too naive to look at her fingers). She also had a helpful knowledge of music, although she had a very neutral type of personality. In fact she served without a flicker of apparent enthusiasm or interest. Roy insisted that she must be a creature from Doctor Who.
Dove and I gave a jump as we noticed each other that Saturday. We moved about the store eyeing each other over the racks. Suddenly I didn’t only think of him as the vocalist in a band. I was getting flashbacks of him performing in blue movies, as well as crushing skulls. For a while we pretended to ignore each other. Unfortunately, flipping through the same section, we were forced to rub shoulders.
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake, it’s that Bottle. How’s the communist movement?’
I tried to avoid eye contact and focus on sleeves. ‘S’long as you keep out of my way.’
‘They’re mates of yours. All of them Trotskyites,’ he sneered, down his nose. ‘You was out socialising with em.’ Dove had a quiet, insinuating tone of voice, as if someone had taken the whistle out of his neck.
‘I like to socialise with socialists. Do you want me to discriminate?’
‘You couldn’t be tighter. Fighting on their side.’
‘We were defending ourselves,’ I said.
‘Why you attacking white boys? Where’s your loyalty?’
I couldn’t help finding that ironic. His pale eyes puzzled over me. I noticed that his hands were fisted up.
‘See? Don’t listen to all that red propaganda. Join the patriots. Don’t sell England down the river.’
‘Not much of a river in Nulton,’ I pointed out.
‘Don’t betray your people.’
He was trying to recruit me - to sway my mind. All of them were selling you their party, like Club Ibiza for political extremists.
‘I’m a floating voter,’ I remarked.
‘You believe in this system?’
‘I’ve yet to make my mind up... politically.’ This was a dangerous admission.
‘The indigenous people got to stick together,’ he argued.
How did he get so twisted up? Consensus was a dirty word in Britain - compromise was rotting in the streets - and people were ready to try extreme solutions for a change. It was that type of disillusioned boredom that produced punk as well.
‘How’d you get involved with Troy Crock?’ I retorted. Never mind the economy or politics, that issue was uppermost.
The Golem-like fascist was taken aback. ‘I’m not discussing another party member with you or anyone,’ he snarled.
‘Really? Since when were you Made in Britain?’ I wondered.
Morton and Siobhan picked up on the menacing conversation. The timid look on Morton’s visage was a deceptive one. They began to sense the risk of violence in their beloved shop. Morton didn’t look like a hard man, but he was ready to intervene to save h
is records and everything. Despite a peaceable nature, he’d look after his singles, double packs and picture discs, with his life.
‘Troy’s a true patriot. Well respected in party ranks. Don’t disrespect him. You won’t always have those commies to protect you.’
‘Right, Mick, so I could almost be intimidated,’ I retorted.
‘Troy’s a generous lad. He supports the party... to build a strong Britain, improving the lives of working class British people,’ Dove told me.
I processed the information. Essentially it was ‘national socialism’.
‘He’s definitely got a soft spot for the Hitler youth,’ I said. Really I was taunting him, to find out more.
‘You aren’t fit to eat cornflakes out of his fucking hand.’
‘So long as it’s just his hand,’ I replied.
Dove’s face puckered with fury. ‘You wanna feel my hand?’
Morton noticed the disagreement. After giving Siobhan a reassuring look, the record shop owner turned a warning glance at us, without blinking. So I stepped aside and began to explore another box of records. Anyway Morton knew I was a polite regular customer. I wasn’t the aggressive type - I’d blush when Siobhan looked at me.
‘What do you know about punk? Why you buying those records?’ Dove confronted me.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘This is white working class music,’ he argued, sneering.
‘You reckon?’
‘Not for commie traitors and mates.’
‘Give me elbow room, Dovey.’
‘Why do you rate Snot’s band? Tell him Steel Dildo’s getting stronger. We’re got a new rehearsal space. We’re really fucking tight. And we’re taking the message to the people,’ he said. ‘Any dream Stan’s got of a recording contract is over,’ he goaded.
‘May the best band win,’ I replied, ‘but what were you doing in Troy’s porno flicks?’ I just came out and asked him.
Dove wrinkled up his mask with cold hate. Then he jabbed a clammy forefinger at my chest. ‘Me and the English patriots are gonna win this Battle of the Bands contest.’
‘What got into you, to take part in those dirty movies?’ I persisted.
