by Neil Rowland
Even Billy’s rope-like neck muscles were at risk.
‘So what are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘As a three piece we’re shit,’ Stan explained.
‘The rules stop him playing solo,’ I added.
‘Give me a song, I’ll give my opinion,’ Cat teased.
‘Right, definitely Gina love, so why don’t you blinkin hop down quick? Straight up, before this bunch of monkeys do ‘emselves more mischief?’ Marty called up. His wiry bony frame was silhouetted in moonlight below her - with just a fuzzy halo about his hair.
‘Try this in your stage show,’ Gina teased.
Snot kept his artistic fingers hooked over the ledge.
‘Fair play Gina, just do as we bloomin ask and let us in. Or, no bullshit, we gonna lose that blinkin record contract faster than Ravi Shanker tunes up a one string fucking lute,’ Marty warned.
‘What’re you doing here, mop head?’
Apart from that distinctive puff of hair and star dust, Marty was in obscurity. Only he was still larger than ordinary life.
Finally we were able to collapse our human ladder. We could only hope that Cat had listened to Mortal’s legendary manager.
***
The house radiated affluence and cultural taste, from the hallway through. I was able to read off tell-tale signs like Roland Barthes. Or like Jacques Derrida, I had a shrewd eye for contradictions. Her father could afford these things, because he ran those paper mills and a paper products company. Joseph Watson had a good reputation as an employer and was respected. More than this he was a big music fan and he sponsored concerts, even though, as yet, not punk concerts.
Gina wasn’t dressed to shock that evening. I’d never seen her without theatrical makeup and shocking fashions. She was just in a plain blouse and a pleated skirt, like a character from a dystopian science fiction novel. Somehow she looked really good. Or maybe it was just me. Snot thought she’d given up Rotten and all that punk.
Without heavy punk cosmetics her features were cooler. She was looking tired though and there were dark smudges under her eyes. Generally I was mad about her. Past experience with girls taught me not to show my feelings too obviously. She might have been a pussy cat, but I was still a platypus.
Gina was shocked by our latest appearance - and it had nothing to do with punk. This was after our pre-gig warm up, when Dove and his mates had slapped us about. Snot had a cut on his cheek and a display of psychedelic colours developing. At this stage she was more concerned about Snot’s injuries than mine. That grieved me. I guess he was the key member of Mortal, whereas I just typed up interviews. He got her sympathy and concern, while I dished out a naive compliments.
‘What happened to you? Oh my god!’
Snot gave her a summary, ‘Some lads did us over in the changing room,’ he explained.
‘Them right wing t’ugs gave us a roight good kickin’ so!’ Billy admitted. ‘It was shockin’!’
‘They got us by surprise. I was pushed on the floor, before I knew anything,’ I said. ‘One of them was kicking me in the ribs... while I was on the ground.’
‘Not a sight for sore eyes,’ she told us. ‘Come into the front room, will you. Just for a while... to recover... take the weight off your boots.’
We followed but we must have looked anxious. With a band sound check overdue, we were up against the town hall clock, fortunately repaired.
‘Don’t worry, my parents are out... late shopping. Anyway they rarely come into the front room. The house is too big for them to use.’
‘No bullshit Gina, I reckon you’ve got a few blinkin ghosts wandering about this creepy fucking castle,’ Gorran agreed.
‘Mozart,’ Snot suggested.
Besides the skirt and blouse, Gina was modelling fluffy slippers. We could almost be shocked. She definitely wasn’t in Sour Cat costume.
If Mortal didn’t make their sound check, in some shape and number, they would be disqualified. But how could you even sound check, if you didn’t have a band?
We sunk into a couple of Chesterfield sofas, but couldn’t afford to hang around. A bit of talking and negotiation was necessary to persuade Sour Cat. Gorran sensed a weak spot towards us - a chink of sympathy - and he was the PR negotiator to work on it.
To begin with his heartfelt riffs, about human adversity and rock destiny, didn’t make any impact. ‘Why should I come back to the band now... just to help you lot out of a fix?’ she said.
Good question. Freud or the beat poets couldn’t help me. She sat looking sceptical, opposite to us, wringing her hands, as if to get the stiffness out of her fingers. It looked as if she was sitting in a cold draft. She was pleased to see us again, but she was far from her old punk self.
‘Right, definitely Gina,’ Marty set off again, leaning forward between his bony knees, clasping those dyed hands, turning up a tragi-comic mask. ‘No bullshit love, if you don’t come back into Mortal Wound tonight, then those bloomin arrogant wankers on the council are gonna disqualify them. Straight up, quicker than David Bailey gets the blinkin angles on all those fucking models of his.’
‘I’d like to help,’ she commented.
‘Straight up Gina, what harm can it do to play rhythm guitar and contribute your bloomin musical talents and backing vocals? No bullshit, so Mortal Wound can pick up that winners’ cheque tonight and get that blinkin lucrative recording contract into their fucking back pockets.’ The rock supremo attempted to twinkle confident reassurance.
It was a hard pitch, even if a chipped tooth and a half-closed eye added pathos and anti-hero appeal.
‘Can’t you take no as an answer? You want me to put it in a tattoo... on my ass?’ she cut back. Gina remained on her feet, ready to show us out and return to her studies.
‘Fair play now Gina, where’s the harm in it, so?’ Billy wanted to know. ‘Just play the gig tonoight will yer... an’ help us win the contest, because, jeysus, we gotta play our best now.’ There seemed to be a lump in Urine’s throat.
She folded her arms and tapped a tempo with her slipper. ‘Why’d I want to do that? To get gobbed at and abused? When I got good music upstairs to think about?’
‘Right, definitely, so you’re gonna hide away in that blinkin bedroom of yours? Straight up, pull the fucking curtains on the blinkin world and tap away on that fucking little keyboard?’ he said.
She turned away, anxious.
‘Straight up, you’re gonna have that on your guilty blinkin conscience for the rest of your life,’ the pop maverick argued.
‘How did you work that out?’
‘No bullshit, having big regrets that you condemned a fucking great little punk band to bloomin obscurity for future generations. Straight up, that you help to launch ‘em back down the fucking plug hole of rock ‘n’ roll destiny,’ Marty objected, diplomatically. On the edge of his seat, he winced at such a terrible event.
‘I’m not a regular member,’ Gina argued.
‘They need you,’ I said. ‘Without you, they’re just... also rans.’
‘Never rans,’ Stan put in.
Sour cat merely shrugged and stared fixedly ahead.
‘Right, definitely, you want to listen to Bottle here, the top fucking rock writer on that blinkin Music Mail paper down in London. No bullshit Gina, if you an’t playing the gig tonight I might as well take Snot here and drop ‘im back down at the bus station. Straight up, so he can get out his instrument and start fucking busking,’ Marty argued.
‘What cheek you want the tattoo?’ Cat commented.
‘Fuck off, will I.’
‘Right, definitely Snot, so Mortal’s going over those Niagara Falls blindfolded on a fucking handcart,’ the pop maverick told him. He was struggling to sort out his facial muscles in this crisis.
Gina stayed put and wasn’t moved.
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‘Honest, you’re the heart and soul of this band,’ I declared.
‘Until I pass my exams and get into music school, I can’t commit to anything. I read about the final in the Chronicle. I support you... hope you do really well... but it’s difficult for me to re-join.’
‘You can still read that paper?’ I wondered.
‘We’re lost our mojo, Gina, without yer. Fair play, so we have. Won’t you reconsider coming back to us like?’ Billy urged.
She flinched under pressure. ‘You’ve got to understand... it’s important for my future... last time I made a hash of the Bach piece. It was so bloody embarrassing. All those teachers observing me... twitching their beards and stuff. I wanted the floor to open up.’
‘Right, definitely, Gina, never mind those blinkin fiddle slashing dinosaurs, get your bloomin guitar back over your shoulder and out of the fucking house. Otherwise, straight up, Mortal have got no chance of triumphing in the competition and putting a bloomin three album deal into their jacket pockets. No bullshit, Gina, you’re losing your sense of fucking reality,’ Gorran warned.
The star vocalist and multi-instrumentalist stared ahead blankly; chewing her lips.
‘You’re absolutely brilliant,’ I said.
Sour Cat gave me a curious look. And the others turned to check me out too.
‘You’re vital to the band now.’
‘Since you first walked into practice at Crock Studios,’ Billy admitted. ‘Honest to God, I don’t care what you moight say now, Stan bay. That’s the troot. We lost our feckin sound, way back so. It changed when she joined us, so it did.’
‘If I can do the vocals,’ Gina said. ‘I’d consider it.’
‘Lead vocals? No way.’
‘Listen to you now, Stan bay, you was desperate for her a moment ago.’
‘Just desperate,’ Snot remarked.
‘Go and spin on it,’ Gina suggested.
‘She has to stick to rhythm guitar. I’m doing the vocals and lead guitar,’ the head punk insisted.
‘Right, definitely Snot, go and bloomin listen to yourself will you? No bullshit Snot, squawking up on that stage like Bob blinkin Dylan with a fucking nose peg on. Straight up, you lot, if Gina wants to do bloomin vocals and add a few licks on guitar, I’m telling you as your blinkin manager to take her on board. No bullshit, Snot, your vocals give me the bloomin shakes, like a lot of blinkin neutron bombs,’ Marty grimaced.
‘Get a chunk of the big cheese.’
‘I’ll definitely try some lead vocals, if you’re really asking me,’ she said. ‘What happened to Nutcase, anyway?’ she wondered.
‘Vocal nodules,’ I explained.
‘Oh, poor Nut! Is he on the mend or what?’
‘Straight up, we got a bloomin sound check coming up. No bullshit, Mortal’s gonna piss away that record deal like Ollie Reed against a blinkin lamp post,’ Marty warned, fighting with a pained look.
‘Live concerts don’t agree with me. Remember?’
‘Don’t get fussed, Gina, cos we’ll look after you,’ I promised.
‘Maybe I’ll think about it. Buy me a drink before it starts.’
‘Gord elp us, just stay away from the blinkin orange juice, will you?’
‘You’ve got to include my songs on the album,’ she stated.
‘Bollocks will we,’ Snot bristled.
‘Right, definitely Gina, don’t listen any more cos he’s not in a position to blinkin negotiate. Fair play, glad you’re being more bloomin positive and getting into the right mood. Straight up, go and grab your bloomin coat, will you?’ Marty told her.
‘What’s my dad going to say?’ she wondered.
36. The Rock Aristocracy Gathers
Gina insisted that we get Nutcase back, as a pre-condition for her. Cat agreed to play rhythm guitar, adding only backing vocals and splashes of keyboard. She was definitely in a strong negotiating position.
Marty faced the challenge of appealing to Nutcase’s best instincts and returning him for a sound check. The big name DJ had to throw the little Austin around town as if entered into the cross-Sahara rally race - if not in a purple haze, definitely in a blue haze of exhaust smoke.
We found Mrs Nut and Little Nut fast asleep, but not Big Nut. Sandra wasn’t delighted to see us gathered on her doorstep again. Luckily she already knew us, because we didn’t look wholesome, not even to a heavy metal fan married to a Mohican punk.
‘My Paul’s not at ‘ome, lads,’ she explained. ‘He’s workin’ on those ‘ouses Parrots are throwin’ up.’
The S&M gang had to scramble back into the Sunbeam in a good impression of the Keystone Cops. Grinding gears and burning North Sea oil (just then beginning to pump into giros) the pop impresario grimaced forward over the wheel with grim determination.
I thumbed through a copy of the Nulton A - D, to try to determine the location of this half-built ‘Paradise’ Estate. It was right off Purgatory. At last we caught up with Nutcase, after Gorran had negotiated security staff: he managed to baffle them with enough hype. The pop magnate had two verbal talents; either he’d charm the pants off them or make them desperate to get rid of him. After jogging along muddy streets-in-embryo, trying to avoid trucks and machinery, we found our vocalist at his alternative labours. He was painting ceilings, tilting his head back like Michelangelo filling in clouds. Apparently he’d given up the idea of being a rock god, or even a punk rock hate figure.
Gina whined that the doctor’s advice about resting and medicating was just bullshit. She argued that you didn’t get rid of nodules by pampering them, you blasted them with screams instead (his own, that is). Either that or you shrank them with vodka. Nutcase listened to her wide eyed, taking in the expert advice. Meanwhile he was dabbing white-spirit into a cloth and wiping his thick fingers. He never wanted to disappoint Gina or hurt her feelings. He highly respected her playing and singing and she took advantage. So he listened to her dubious advice, even though a ship load of Vikings wouldn’t have budged him otherwise.
‘Right, Gina. I ‘eard yer out. What you ‘ad to say. If you lads want me back... Well, right... To be honest, I’ve missed it. A gig ‘ud do me good,’ he decided. His bison chest expanded as the crazy thrill returned.
So we scrambled back to the car (now sprayed with mud from a passing tipper truck). Complaining bitterly Gorran geared back to Nulton’s bright light. There was no time for Nut to take off paint spattered work overalls. Marty thought they’d be an effective costume for the gig. ‘Straight up Nut, it’s all about making a blinkin impact,’ the pop genius argued. As ever we genuflected. ‘No bullshit Nut, listen to me, cos they’ll be hanging those blinkin paint spattered overalls of yours in a window down the fucking King’s Road this time next year.’
‘You reckon, Marty?’
‘It’s not so far-fetched,’ I said. I was his most gullible mouth-piece at this time.
The Mortal screamer crammed his glued-up green bristles under the roof. Luckily he’d kept that hair style, which resembled a green flying saucer stuck through the centre of his head.
‘I’ve been missin’ the buzz,’ he admitted.
We flew back into town, with no more hold-ups, for our date with rock ‘n’ roll destiny. So we hoped. And when we got there (after Marty had parked at a zigzag) we noticed a Les’s old Caddy (Buick, Pontiac, Cadillac - Empire Coach/Attleboro MA) slunk into the kerb of the high street, in defiance of regulations. This enormous flattened looking automobile was a vintage landmark for the town. Phoenix had resprayed its rusty arches especially for the Battle of the Bands final.
The more cynical of Nulton’s youth - and older generations too - doubted Les’s Texan origins. From time to time, the topic came up. They detected more than a hint of Stoke-on-Trent in that Lone Star twang of his. Most people on the Nulton music scene preferred t
o go along with him. We were happy to hitchhike along his freeway, particularly with a genuine US girl like Betsy hitched for the ride. Nobody could doubt that Betsy came from Baltimore. Phoenix definitely had a half-sister in Pittsburgh, who’d married an American sailor (his job was to pull back the elastic on aircraft carriers). A few lads had been introduced to her in the Dragon, when she came over to visit family. She definitely had an American accent. It was enough to keep Phoenix’s American credibility alive.
‘Straight up lads, be blinkin sensitive with Les tonight, after the bloomin King went and fucking pegged it,’ Marty advised.
‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘We’re all sad about it.’
‘Fair play, Les was his biggest fan and it takes a lot of blinkin courage to drag himself out of Gracelands tonight,’ the rock guru briefed us.
As our bunch headed towards the Hall, a Cadillac door opened before us, with an almighty creak at the joints. At first we thought it must be Springsteen about to jump out on to the Nulton sidewalk. Unfortunately it wasn’t the New Jersey legend, it was Betsy Dandie and a couple of her Screamers. A tight ball of energy, smiling dazzlingly, kitted out in black leather, with her pointy boots and a blaze of blonde hair, she definitely looked like a million dollar record contract. Betsy had certain traits in common with Bruce.
Gina looked at the woman admiringly, ‘She looks like the winner,’ she said.
‘Gord elp us, Gina love, don’t be taken in by all that Red Rooster hype. Straight up, put your blinkin chin up and have a bit more bloomin self-confidence,’ Marty suggested. ‘No bullshit, you got more talent in one of your blinkin tonsils than she’d got in her whole bloomin body.’
There wasn’t exactly a red carpet for Betsy, or any explosion of flash bulbs, only the typical crowd of spotty youths. Even so they were star struck, even allowing for hormones. The glitzy rock starlet was making her rapid show biz entrance.
We were heading towards the stage door. ‘Right, definitely, we’ll let Les have his moment in the blinkin spotlight,’ Marty told us. ‘Fair play, if Betsy and the Screamers win this competition, then I’ll cut off my own fucking ears and pop em into an envelope for ‘em.’
