by Neil Rowland
‘He’s not playing anything by himself.’
‘That’s bollocks that is.’
‘No, no, it’s certainly not. Unless you produce your group, in a couple of minutes,’ he explained, checking his wristwatch, ‘you’re out.’
‘You’re a fascist as well?’
‘Don’t be cheeky to me, son.’
‘My group’s off playing on a cruise ship,’ Stan claimed.
‘What do you want me to do? Throw ‘em a life boat? Good luck. You can’t play this concert on your own. You’re out, son.’
Snot’s career as a punk rock icon was at risk. Fortunately, as this critical moment of pop history, Gorran made another timely entrance. With an inborn sense of a looming crisis, the guru came to check on preparations. The reality was not encouraging.
‘Right, definitely Snot mate, what the jack up the beanstalk’s going on in here?’ he wondered. ‘Gord elp us mate, what are you doing waving a bloomin clip board in front of their noses? Straight up, this is a contest for blinkin rock bands not for fucking prize potatoes.’
‘Who are you, when you’re at ‘ome?’ He was startled by Marty’s charismatic style. ‘What gives you the or-thority to speak to me in that blunt manner?’ Offended, he blinked and snuffled.
Marty’s smile pulled rank. ‘Straight up, get into the picture, because I’m the blinkin manager of this fucking top little rock band,’ Marty explained. ‘No bullshit, and who the fuck are you, when you an’t out on your blinkin milk round?’ he wondered.
‘You want washing out with soap and water.’
‘The establishment’s kicking me out,’ Stan remarked.
‘No more complaints from you, sonny Jim,’ the official pronounced, perspiring freshly. He took another quick look at the printed sheet on his clipboard.
‘Straight up, listen to this fucking Mister Ten blinkin Bob’s Worth,’ Marty objected. ‘Straight up, how are you gonna explain what you’re doing, hanging about in my artists’ changing room?’
‘What you insinuating?’ The steward adjusted himself against the barbs. ‘This competition’s only for groups. Do you get me? Solo is against the rules. No solo! Point six, paragraph three,’ he pointed out, rapping the document.
‘Gord elp us, no bullshit, you’re letting power go to your blinkin head, mate. No bullshit, we came out to the Civic Hall tonight to cop a few cracking fucking local rock bands. Not to argue with some bloke in a brown coat reading out an act of bloomin Parliament,’ Gorran objected, grinning in amazement.
‘That lad can pack away that guitar and go home,’ the gentleman insisted.
The punk maestro’s temperature was raised. ‘Right, definitely, we didn’t come out to listen to some bloomin concert by the North Korean fucking male voice choir,’ Marty objected, wincing.
‘Technically they’d be a group,’ I pointed out.
‘Not without instruments,’ Stan insisted.
An official finger was aimed at our local pop impresario. ‘Talk to the chairman of judges. He’ll tell you the same. No solo artistes tonight!’
‘Fair play, we didn’t put on our glad rags for some jumped up usherette to start reading out the fucking riot act,’ Marty replied. Agonised frustration crushed his features.
‘Watch your mouth, son! I can’t stand about ‘ere all night, arguing with you,’ said the official. ‘You can’t be doing anything about it. The rules is the rules. Judges’ word is final,’ he told us.
The official left in high dudgeon.
‘That’s the end of my solo career,’ Snot commented.
‘Straight up Snot, what a blinkin shambles this is,’ Marty rebuked. ‘No bullshit, not for the first time.’
‘Well, I didn’t want you as our manager,’ Stan replied.
‘Come off it, Stan,’ I said.
‘Let the big cheese find another punk band.’
‘Right, definitely Snot, now you blinkin mention it,’ Marty said. ‘Fair play, maybe I’d better go off and see if the blinkin Damned want a new fucking manager. Or I’ve always fancied going orf to New York some time to offer my services to blinkin Suicide.’
Billy Urine arrived. ‘All roight lads!? What’s the scandal? What do I hear about some bas’tad putting in a complaint about our Stan so?’ he wondered.
‘That’s right,’ I informed. ‘Stan can’t play the gig solo. Officially it’s not allowed.’
‘Straight up Billy, what does this bloomin contest matter to you, with Snot throwing his fucking rattle out of the pram?’ Gorran complained, rinsing his hair.
‘I’m ready to play,’ Snot assured the drummer.
‘Who made this feckin complaint now? Fair play lads, who’d be so sneaky as to object? When everybody’s turned up and ready to play the gig?’ Urine speculated.
‘It has to be Mick Dove,’ I said.
The drummer snatched a quick breath. ‘Ai now, the Dildo vocalist, mind?’
‘He’s the only lad who hates Stan enough. Our band’s a threat to Dildo’s chances. Take us out, it’s easier to win. Dove wants the recording contract.’
‘Right, definitely, Bottle’s got his finger on the blinkin pulse about that bloomin little boot boy. Or I must be Tom Jones,’ Marty agreed, in a hunch.
The truth flashed in our eyes, like warning lights on Turbo Overdrive’s sound desk.
‘Why don’t we tell the judges?’
‘Right, definitely Bottle, what a good bloomin idea, when Dove’s got Troy Boy in his back pocket and a couple of politicians to keep ‘em company,’ Gorran warned. ‘Straight up, just try going down to that fucking town hall to complain about your blinkin rent,’ he suggested, battling with some fresh tics.
‘Look on the broight side now, lads,’ Billy cut in. ‘I’m avail’ble and you got Steve on bass. No need to go feckin solo and t’ink about gettin disqualifoyed. Fair play lads, don’t get down hearted. We’re satis-foyin the rules so. Let’s get ready and play this feckin gig.’
Billy inspired us. He had arrived with some of his drum cases. To emphasise the change he picked up his sticks and began to beat a tattoo on the table.
‘You’ve been rehearsing as a three piece,’ I reminded Snot. ‘Why not go for it?’
‘Play as a three piece Stan, so you can. We’ve been playin all the songs. Don’t be a stubborn ee-diot.’
‘Right, definitely Billy, but when I heard you lot rehearsing as a three piece I’ve heard more fucking sparks from a box of wet blinkin fireworks.’
‘We’re total crap in that format,’ Stan agreed. ‘Complete bollocks and no Sex Pistols.’
‘So we’re just going home?’ I said. ‘Is that your plan?’
‘Right, definitely Snot, he’s got a blinkin point, because if you can’t get your original fucking band together, you’d better play the final with Steve and Billy. Otherwise, no bullshit, the organisers are going to send me to the fucking cleaners, quicker than one of Dean Martin’s blinkin suits,’ Gorran warned, shrinking down into his shoulders.
***
While we harangued with Stan, our dispute was rudely interrupted. Mick Dove burst in with his thugs and began to give us all a good kicking. That’s the only way to put it. There was no advance warning and we were caught by total surprise.
Apparently Dove had seen Billy turning up at the venue. The fascist frontman knew that Urine had spoken to Fenton about forming a scratch band. After making an official complaint to the judges, Dove was afraid that his Civic Hall putsch would fail. He didn’t know that Stan refused to perform as a three-piece, or admit how he missed Sour Cat.
These right-wing lads were harder and meaner than hammers and crowbars. This time my dad’s boxing lessons - enthusiastic but amateurish - didn’t come in very handy. I could only put my hands up in futile defence.
Before
I could catch second wind one of the thugs had punched me off my feet. In a baffling moment I found myself across the floor. As if Sugar Ray Robinson had danced in, I’d no idea what had hit me. Suddenly I was gazing at the world from two inches off the ground. It was just me and the fluff down there.
In actual fact Mick and the NF boys knocked three chords out of us. Dove’s intention was to cause Stan more lasting damage. Marty was beaten into a corner, curled into a ball, yelping. In the words of the song, he was a talker not a fighter.
‘Get yer feckin hands off me!’ Billy screamed. Despite a pugnacious reputation he could hardly flex a muscle. With no chance to retaliate, the Mortal Wound stickman was skittled like a bar game.
Like the epilogue of Mein Kampf, they’d been saving the worst for us. I felt the end of their boots between my ribs. Dove’s small face was screwed up into a small fist of hatred; resembling a furious worm. We were vanquished. The NF boys stood sneering over us, fists and jaws clenched up, hearts and minds closed. From this extremist angle, I was forced to look up one of Dove’s drainpipes. I nervously counted the eyelets on his boots, while praying for my life. There was no opportunity for a socialist fightback, as Roy would have urged, if he’d been there.
A groaning and moaning heap, we’d nothing to add to the political debate.
‘Don’t fuck with patriots,’ Dove hissed. Attempting to raise his voice, it came out in a weird, hushed pitch. Even when he was enraged, you had to strain your ears. Vocally he was a type of Tom Thumb in jackboots.
‘Nothing else to say, Bottle? You ain’t playing this gig, Snot. You heard the patriotic councillor. People want the truth. We’re not tolerating your leftist agenda.’
‘Right, definitely, felthead, but I reckon you still owe me five hundred quid,’ Marty complained. ‘Straight up, I’ll send you all my fucking medical and laundry bills after this.’
The thugs left the scene. The Mortal crowd was scattered as if a bomb had gone off.
‘Oh bays, it’s brutal, I can’t even raise me feckin arms,’ Billy complained.
‘Right, definitely Billy, I definitely don’t want to bump into those blinkin ugly zombies again, down a fucking dark alley,’ Marty agreed, brushing off his music manager’s jacket.
‘I reckon we already did,’ I pointed out. Lucky I didn’t play any instruments.
Marty soon proved that rock dreams are indestructible. Our music mogul clambered back on to his pixie boots, pulling up his Ramones’ jeans and was knocking the dust out of his puffy hair.
I stayed on the ground for a while longer, tasting blood and cobwebs, in a bitter satire of poetic bliss.
I almost regretted that we took music so seriously. I knew that Abba never got this type of treatment.
35. Another Girl, Another Planet
Our National Front Disco experience provoked Marty Gorran to urgent action. While other bands were going through sound checks, out in the auditorium, we decided to go and persuade Gina to make a punk comeback.
Everybody on the Nulton rock scene knew that Sour Cat - regardless of her talent - had problems. She was agoraphobic, claustrophobic, Paulie-phobic, everything phobic. Sightings were rarer than the sound of a cuckoo in winter.
‘She’s twitchier than Joe Cocker,’ Stan said.
‘Cocker’s into the music,’ I said. ‘He’s got stage presence!’ Sometimes my friend’s music taste posturing - on the thermometer of cool - could irritate me.
Not only did Cat stop attending gigs, including local pub gigs, she didn’t even go out dancing or socialise anymore. What was getting in to her? She was beginning to make Greta Garbo’s social life look like Liz Taylor’s.
The Watsons’ house was so gloomy the Brönte sisters would have refused to go in there; not even on a Forte hotels weekend-break special offer. Marty told me to do all the talking on the doorstep, reasoning that her Mum had already met me. I tried to explain that her mother generally regarded me like Charles Bukowski. But she was even more alarmed by Gorran and by his turns of phrase.
Anyway they didn’t answer the bell. There was not a movement from inside or a light, in response; only an exterior coach light that showed up all our garish anxious faces. If her mother had been home again, most likely the cops would have joined us.
However, as we huddled together under the porch, we began to pick out sounds of brittle notes. We decided it must be Gina going through keyboard exercises. Presumably she was practising for her appointment at Leeds School of Music. Maybe she decided to continue and ignore the knocks and chimes. Or subconsciously, at an infantile pre-mirror stage, she wanted us to go and rescue her, like some punk princess in a MOR tower. Sometimes our dreams can trap us, no matter how pretty they look.
‘Right, definitely, don’t hang about looking at each other like a bunch of blinkin electrocuted street cats. Straight up, take those blinkin chains off your trousers too. This an’t fucking Halloween,’ Gorran told the band members. ‘Or no bullshit the whole blinkin neighbourhood will hear the clanking and start running orf in bloomin horror.’
‘Why can’t she make it simple like? And just answer the feckin door?’ Urine objected.
‘Cat’s got unconscious internal conflicts to resolve,’ I analysed.
‘Gord elp us Bottle, is that the bullshit you want to write for fucking Music Mail every week?’
‘Let’s go home and forget all about it,’ Snot suggested.
Gorran was in no mood for punk cynicism while going to all this trouble.
‘Bang the knocker one more time,’ I suggested.
‘She must be feckin deaf now!’
‘She’s getting her Beethoven complex,’ Stan argued.
‘No bullshit, it’d be easier to rouse that blinkin Maria Callous to come out and sing at the fucking Albert Hall.’
Ironically it was probably a Beethoven piece she was playing; some dreamy run of Romantic notes that went fluttering away into the street. But you could pick up her nerves too, as the piece was regularly halted and restarted. Whatever the explanation, we were in no mood to stand about listening.
‘Gina’s lost herself in the classical world.’
‘Feck off Snot, and get your t’inking cap on,’ Billy rebuked.
‘Right, definitely,’ Marty agreed, ‘we have to break into fucking Colditz here and put some blinkin sense into that dented head of hers. No bullshit, not only some taste in bloomin music,’ he argued, grimacing. Gorran didn’t like any musician in a periwig, especially after Adam Ant sold out.
‘What yer t’inkin, Marty? Looks like they got this big house under lock and key,’ Billy said. He cast a wary look over the daunting facade of the Watson villa.
‘Right, definitely, just blinkin spread yourselves out and look for open windows,’ Marty instructed, shooing us.
‘Not another break in,’ I commented.
‘Right, definitely, stop whinging.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Snot said, as if he was being handed a concept album.
After getting assaulted by Dove and his cronies, we were a bit sore. Music business aside, life in general was less rosy. We pushed through shrubberies and trampled flowerbeds to get into the back garden. Eventually we regathered on the Watson’s undulating lawn, like porcupines from hell. Immediately we noticed there was a light on upstairs. We distinguished some movement behind curtains. Gina had a bedroom on the second storey. It was definitely quite a pad.
‘Either that’s her bedroom, or they got a phantom of the opera,’ Snot said.
‘Fair play, if you can’t be any more help, Stan bay.’
Gina didn’t respond to subtle whistles or calls. We had to rely on Gorran’s media-manipulator mind to come up with a brilliant idea. The punk maverick organised us into a human ladder, to scale the exterior wall and reach her bedroom window. What a crazy idea. It was a type of
circus version of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet. As the strongest Billy Urine was anchor man. Rather than a hod of bricks he held me up on his shoulders; and Snot was stood on mine. Unfortunately he was the Romeo, but he was the smallest.
Gorran was hanging about as ring master. Snot’s ample thighs squeezed my cheeks, as if I was stuck between Miss Piggy’s arse cheeks. Billy must have tripped, because he folded and the three of us went sprawling over the lawn. Luckily it was only grass to land on. As top man Snot went with a thump and a howl on impact, adding a bit of relish to his bruises. He might have sued Gorran for breach of contract.
With our second attempt - staggering like a pissed giraffe - we had more success. Billy made a desperate rush and collapsed our noses against bricks. After clawing and scrambling against the wall of the house, Snot was high enough to reach Juliet’s window ledge. Tense and awkward, as if he could plunge at any moment, Stan nervously raised a knuckle to tap on the glass. No rock guitar-hero should have gone through this ordeal. Fortunately there was a rapid reaction as the sash was thrown up. Somebody had come to the window to look down.
‘What’s this? You put on a growth spurt Stan?’ It was Cat’s voice.
‘Not funny,’ he said.
She’d no problem recognising Snot’s melancholy eyes and piratical face, peering up at her from under the ledge. Gina stared down, a hand over her mouth, as she recognised us all in turn. It was shocking that Gorran had forced a disabled person to perform this. But like everyone, she didn’t mention the fact. Nobody thought of Stan in regard to his ‘disabilities’.
‘What an amazing trick, boys. I’m impressed!’
‘Course it was the Big Cheese.’
‘All right, Gina?’ I called.
Billy Urine’s voice came up shakily. ‘Fer feck’s sake Gina, come down and let us in!’
‘What else can you boys do?!’
‘It’s finals night,’ Snot told her, ironically.
‘The Battle of the Bands? That came around quick.’
‘Didn’t it! Time flies!’ I called.
