by Neil Rowland
‘We’re gonna bring back the death penalty, Bottle, for all queers, not just the commies and traitors,’ he warned. ‘That’s the people’s justice.’
Firing squads, nooses, take your pick!
I watched his superior race making an exit.
31. One Man’s Band
Not many RPMs later I collided with the Dove of War yet again. This was during his other job fronting up a punk band called Steel Dildo.
After the combo came a poor third in their previous heat, they should have been thrown out. Only an intimidating challenge to the judges table, which reached a far-right councillor on the panel, put them through as ‘best runner-ups’.
Snot and I stood at the back of the Dragon, getting a head of Dildo’s violent thrash and hate. I was finding them hard to take, although Stan was more laidback. He argued that the band was entertaining; claimed to enjoy their edgy set. Snot thought extremism and aggression was an exciting and risky part of punk. I went along with him to a fashion, except that I wanted irony or humour in the music too. The best groups had a bit of thought and cuteness to the sound and to the lyrics. There should be some art involved, with the performance element, to put alongside the music, beyond anger and gobbing.
Politics aside - as Snot would tell me - Steel Dildo was playing better; and they had stage presence. Their ‘songs’ consisted of angry three minute blasts and harangues. Assuming you liked them, which I didn’t, they could whip up a mob frenzy. My spiky coloured hair seemed to stand up on end, even as I felt something cold and slimy down my neck (not gob this time). A Steel Dildo gig was high camp, low farce and a snake pit, all mixed together. Surely they couldn’t win the Battle of the Bands, or could they?
Mick Dove’s vocal style was weird; it obscured his furious lyrics. Maybe a lot of lads pogo-ing about didn’t listen or get his lyrics. Even on stage he sounded as if he was whispering, although it was a sinister whisper, like fingerprints over your brain. Just numbskull stuff like People of the World Disunite, or rabble rousing choruses of Asians Against Caucasians. It would be years before a left-wing skinhead group, such as The Redskins, came along to challenge the ideology. Meanwhile Dildo came over as a right wing version of Dead Kennedys - that brilliantly sardonic (later) American punk band - of Holidays In Cambodia fame or notoriety (they didn’t suspect that holidays in Cambodia would become fashionable). But as I said before, Dildo completely lacked irony and humour.
‘How you gonna win the argument? By silencing them?’ Snot challenged.
‘They would silence you,’ I reminded my friend.
‘You wanna have their songs banned or what? You want to censor free speech? You want to stop free expression?’
There was no need to answer that one. I just looked back sceptically.
‘Don’t get worked up about it, Bottle. These are just wind ups. Symbols. Situations and hoaxes,’ he claimed. In that sense he was a typical art student, looking for attention and provocation.
During and after Dildo’s short set the crowd was in a riotous frenzy. Snot was getting great pleasure from the spectacle, as from his own band. Marty Gorran was DJ and he was forced to make an urgent appeal for calm over the PA, as if he was Big Brother. In some ways he was our ‘big brother’ - since mine wouldn’t speak to me or recognise me in the street.
‘Straight up, Gord elp us all, if all you blinkin herberts don’t stop throwing things and smacking each other. Straight up I’m gonna pull the fucking plug on this whole bloomin gig before long,’ Marty warned. He came over as an anxious booming voice through the PA.
‘Fair play, cut out the gobbing, all right? No bullshit, how do you expect me to play any fucking records if the stylus is slipping all across the blinkin grooves!’ he objected. ‘Fair play, I’ll send you the blinkin cleaning bills and all. If you don’t cut it out, I’m out of this place. Fair play, faster than a squirrel picking up its nuts and running back up its fucking tree!’ he threatened.
You could distinguish his sinewy lines, the electric halo of hair, behind a bank of coloured stage lighting, stood over his console.
‘Right, definitely, otherwise the blinkin management are going to get these fucking bouncers to sort you all out. Straight up lads, it’s your last bloomin warning now, because the blokes can empty this place quicker than fucking Olive Newton John,’ he warned. Marty wasn’t so up on popular country sounds.
Finally the bouncers had to go into action against Dildo’s mob. They took to the floor in numbers and, putting in some tasty screw shots on those neo-Nazis, cleared the table in style. Despite the views of his eldest boy, Troy, nobody could accuse Dave Crock of being a racist. He would hack down the opposition, regardless of race, creed or political views. It was a sport for men and everybody was fair game.
After Dildo it was surreal to have Viscous Kittens playing next. This time Paulie had miraculously turned up early. He jumped on stage first, and was bashing his bongos, pouting and prancing about, to please and entertain the crowd. The unlikely pair of Dennis on drums and Herb on bass formed a great rhythm section. Anna-kissed was chopping away at guitar, jagged and abstract to suit the sound. The whole venue shook with lower end vibrations and wicked bass lines; everybody in the room dancing, dancing, dancing.
Herb had been recruited back into the group, when he realised that Paulie had forgotten about Anna-kissed (in bedroom lighting). The cub reporter was no longer any threat to their relationship. Typically the pop idol had lost sexual interest in her by dawn - as soon as the first ray of sunlight had cut through his bedroom curtains. The only interest in her by then was as a member of the group. That was positive - it was almost a step towards true feminism.
Viscous Kittens had been rehearsing, with and without their leader. Their sound was rejuvenated like an old Rastafarian with a fresh sack of ganja. After a while I stopped staring at Paulie’s stage antics because the music was so great. A lot of the girls in the crowd that night came to the front to watch his performance closely. Wellington had a trio of female backing singers on stage too and he was lapping up the attention. One of these girls was a dressmaker and she made the band some new stage costumes. Unfortunately these were to Wellington’s instructions. Their outfits were baggy smocks with large orange sun images at the centre. It had to be a wind up for the punks. I’ve no idea how Paulie got the other musicians to wear them.
Arguably the ridiculous stage image was just a minor distraction. Even Paulie himself was just a distraction. The reason was, Viscous Kittens had put together a brilliant sound. The fusion of influences, somewhere between Trench Town and Notting Hill, had worked triumphantly.
Miraculously Paulie’s groupies were entirely in tune, even if Paulie had no idea about harmonising. Before the gig started Wellington had argued that his singers were a radical feminist statement. This claim was underlined by knowing that he’d slept with them all. That was really Paulie’s only talent. But you couldn’t overlook it: I would have traded it sometimes.
The judges that evening were ageing rockists to a man. The panel ranged down the table, like Robert Plant, Van Halen and Phil Lynott together on a stag night.
Thank the lord that Gina wasn’t around. And she had resisted the pop god’s charms that notorious evening. That calamity was only avoided because we’d stayed up late to watch a classic film. Just imagine if we’d taken an early night or stayed in our rooms. If it hadn’t been for us Sour Cat might have turned into a Viscous Kitten. By next morning Paulie would have disowned all knowledge of her as a sexual partner. It would have been too late for her by breakfast time. Such a calamity would have damaged her music career, not to mention her sex life. It was a big might-have-been of rock music history. And it was too horrible to think about - although I did.
What would happen if Paulie really succeeded and won the Battle of the Bands? We shared a recurring nightmare of Paulie as a famous global pop star. Terrible images of P
aulie as a rock idol, adored by every girl, spread over the centre pages of Smash Hits with a staple through his belly. Oh god, it was too dreadful to think about.
You only had to look at the record charts every week. The music business was a crazy mix of the ridiculous and the sublime. Particularly the singles chart. Paulie on Top of the Pops, breaking young girls’ hearts, stuck at number one for umpteenth weeks. Paulie being interviewed by Richard Skinner on Radio One, grinning on the cover of Rolling Stone, Paulie cracking America and Europe. It wouldn’t have been any surprise to Paulie himself.
There was only one other local band able to stop him, in my view. Unfortunately Mortal wasn’t in any shape. If Snot’s band had been a person it would have been in hospital too.
***
To recap the story to this point (for those readers who may be tracing Mortal’s rock family tree): Nutcase was retired with his polyps: Herb Slasher and Ann-kissed had fallen under Wellington’s influence: Sour Cat had dropped her punk name and given up rock (according to rumours Gina Watson was a complete neurotic and a prisoner in her own music room). Steve Fenton was entertaining ‘corporate clients’ on Marty’s behalf at Duncehead’s Bernie Inn. Only the drummer Billy Urine was prepared to play.
After the robbery Marty was desperate for income. He wanted to enter all his bands for the contest, and to subsidise S&M music enterprises. To finance these ambitions he had to take on more work as a sign writer/designer and was DJ-ing around the clock.
Not having any musicians or a band, Snot faced elimination from the Battle. Mortal’s name was up on the poster, and a lot of his old college mates had turned up. He decided to go solo to avoid dropping out altogether. Later we understood that solo performances were not allowed, according to the small print of the rules. The competition had been advertised as a band competition. Fortunately for Snot nobody made a fuss at the heats stage.
‘I got to level with you, Bottle,’ Snot admitted. ‘I hate doing this on my own. It’s against the whole idea of punk. But I haven’t got any choice... do I? Yeah, well, so it has to be me, the guitar and a few of my crap songs.’
‘I’d like to help out,’ I told him. I was happy with my chisel and a typewriter.
We glued ourselves to the bar, letting Snot imbibe more courage and to inhale extra sweet inspiration.
Gorran was busy hustling, working his plastic features, with big talk about pop’s future. Obviously he hadn’t noticed how few musicians remained in Mortal. Archie the Rottweiler was still gnawing at his nerves. I reckoned we’d have to persuade Sour Cat back, to stand any chance. For all his persuasive power and PR genius, Gorran wasn’t always a wizard. Not away from his turntables.
When Mortal Wound’s turn came, Snot clambered up. To begin with the audience didn’t realise he would be alone. After fussing, tuning and throat clearing, Stan began to strum and sing. That evening he had an acoustic guitar. He could have passed as a folk singer, even direct from the Village. He was solitary at the mic, blinking under a hot spot. If it hadn’t been for the spiky coloured hair, sundry piercings, ripped ‘Sex’ tee-shirt, bondage pants with a chain through the loops, he could have been related to Dylan or even Pete Seeger.
‘Yeah, right, I’ve always been me own punk.’ Stan continued to fiddle with the neck of Luigi’s axe, still tuning up twitchily into a crackly PA. ‘The band took one look at you ugly punks and ran away,’ he joked. ‘Well, anyway, don’t mind me, finish your fucking conversations. I’ll just stand here and play a few of my terrible songs. Maybe I’ll entertain you... before you all fall over dead drunk.
‘Do you lot appreciate the Velvet Underground? So I’ll kick off with my version of All Tomorrow’s Parties.
‘Fuck me, Bottle mate, glad you didn’t want to sing this one!
‘After that I’ll croon a couple of me own fuck-up songs... just to let these judges know I have my own derivative material. Not that you’re gonna rate it. No apologies. If there’s any music lovers out there... best to leave now.’
Snot cut an opening chord. Under the spot he’s the same small, hunched, vulnerable looking lad. Same big ego, charisma and obvious (if denied) talent. He didn’t have a ‘good’ voice, but he restricted himself to his range. Obviously, choosing a Velvets’ song, there was something extra to mere tunefulness. Or tunelessness.
‘I’m never gonna croon again,’ he admitted afterwards.
After a full programme of shouty bands, so desperate to impress, Snot sounded fresh. Apart from a few hesitations, and that awkward style, Stan got through it. He’d got such a gift with the guitar. The only risk was in the vocals. He had to keep under control, to avoid severe limitations. Holding down volume, avoiding theatrics, building tension, he managed to catch the ear.
The guitar was held up in a high position, hiding his poor narrow chest. He’d look up for the next verse, keeping time by tapping his foot on the boards. There’d be a shrug of the shoulder as he changed chords or went into the bridge. Most of all you noticed his hands, large yet delicate - a strangler’s hands, as they say.
‘I don’t want to upset you, Stan mate,’ I joked afterwards. ‘I wouldn’t like to mention Joan Baez.’
‘I fucking wouldn’t do that,’ he agreed.
Stan was one of those natural talents, hard to explain, like Errol Garner or Jimi Hendrix. He’d just discovered this talent by chance and accident - as we saw - entirely self-taught. You didn’t want to tell him this. Often I’d sit at the end of the bed, listening to him, completely dazzled. In fact I was open mouthed.
The judges put him third, so he went through. Somehow he’d pulled it off. Once again he’d hypnotised us all. But it would be years before we had any appreciation Joan Baez.
32. Work Out at Troy’s Gym
A rematch with Troy Crock wasn’t such a smart move. But we had to present him with the latest circumstantial evidence.
This time we rang the front door bell of Troy’s pseudo-Grecian pile. After some deduction - not yet needing to hire Columbo, Ironside or Kojak - Marty realised that the Crock clan really wasn’t at home. This time they were out shopping or eating, because they had flown back in from Marbella the previous week.
Steve gripped the edge of the back fence and peered over, just in case. There was only Archie spread on the lawn, chewing erotically on another new basketball. We had no wish to provoke the evil side of Archie’s nature again. So Marty told us we should leave the area; we clambered back aboard the Austin and he gunned back into town (if you count the exhaust as a gun). Unfortunately we didn’t find Troy in the Crock Sound Studios complex either, or down in the office of the Flamingo club either. We were shooting about Nulton all that afternoon, as in an indie (or idle) reconstruction of The Italian Job.
Acting on a tip off, Marty understood that Troy must be on duty at the Duncehead branch of Troy Crock Health & Fitness Centre. To get an address Marty consulted a rain warped copy of the Yellow Pages book, from a vandalised telephone box. In those days it was the closest thing to a sat-nav. Even now I smell piss and rain every time I look up an address.
Nobody on the local music scene had much dice with health and fitness. Most of my mates were heavy smokers, drinkers, often mixing other additions (or addictions): most of them only had with an inch of spare lung capacity. Any breath left was reserved for knobbing or more alcohol. This made sense to them; because it was hard to imagine Jimi Hendrix sipping apple juice in a sauna.
Again Steve Fenton was fearless in confronting Nulton’s pre-eminent thug. When it came to (understanding) his emotions Steve was Steve Austen of The Bionic Man. Either that or he didn’t have a nerve in his body to start with. Overall Steve had a nervous system like a fretless bass.
The S&M party (so to speak) arrived at the Crock’s leisure centre and hustled past reception without a prior booking. Hoping to be missed, we ignored a huddle of employees in tight shorts, sneakers and
carrot tans. Unfortunately these highly-tuned health workers noticed our rush. They were desperate to check-up on our membership status. Gorran’s lack of sporting condition was glaringly obvious, as it was startling. That didn’t stop the music exec shifting like a chased hare when required (not only with a dog after him). The rock maverick’s unique appearance, with that spindly gait and natural puff of hair (enhanced by punk fashions), created an immediate panic in a leisure and sports centre.
Compared to Gorran I was in reasonable shape, despite a Richard Hell type haircut and ripped fetish trousers (which impeded my progress). I was already wearing big Oxfam overcoats (most likely from dead men), as if anticipating my passion for groups such as Joy Division, The Cure or The Sound.
Leisure centre staff was kitted out to join Brotherhood of Man, Bucks Fizz or even S Club Seven. Abba had won Eurovision the previous year and the Swedish ensemble encouraged a certain look of glowing health, like Tantric sex in the sauna. Anyway it was the first time I’d been chased by such a bunch of bronzed and determined blondes. There’s a first and last time for everything. We managed to give that LA beach party crowd the slip - we’d already had plenty of practice. I felt like Winston Smith out of Nineteen Eighty Four, roaming long empty corridors, with a terror of toned studs instead of rats. The Centre Director’s office, when we eventually found it, was as empty as the post holder’s moral conscience.
‘Gord elp us, I’m all at bloomin sixes and sevens.’ Marty was gasping for breath and this pain set off the fissures and drill holes of his craggy features.
‘That goon’s here somewhere,’ Fenton insisted.
‘Right, definitely Steve, be blinkin careful how you deal with the Crock family. Straight up, in case they wake you up in the blinkin small hours of the morning. Fair play, with a couple of steel barrels pointing up your bloomin nostrils. No bullshit, you want to keep a hand on the switch of your fucking bedside lamp,’ Marty advised. He winced with disorientation.
