Punk Story

by Neil Rowland

  ‘Remember what he just told us,’ Stan said.

  We looked back down the alley to where the Red Rooster entourage had assembled. Phoenix sniffed the evening air (just as polluted as LA) smelling rock ‘n’ roll destiny, like Jasmine in Austin (Texas). The CEO of Red Rooster was dignified, sombre, all in black (in respect to Presley) a trademark fur draped over his shoulders and the Stetson cocked forward. For the big night he’d asked his friend (Al from next door) to drive him and the artists to the venue. The diminutive pensioner was kitted out awkwardly in a hired chauffeur’s uniform and cap.

  No back entrances for Red Rooster.

  ‘No bullshit, that’s the only way old Les can get his blinkin head through,’ Marty jested. ‘Straight up, even if he took his blinkin hat orf.’

  Gina was no better in the Diva stakes. She was stood looking at her guitar case and keyboard. All of a sudden it was too much for her. ‘Thank you. Will you boys carry my gear for me? Or what should I do?’

  ‘We’ll figure out the set list,’ Snot was saying.

  ‘You only got three songs to play, max,’ I reminded them.

  ‘We’ll get through the sound check first. I’ve got a few new songs. A couple of obnoxious rackets. We can include them for the gig.’

  ‘Maybe Faber’ll publish your collected song lyrics one day,’ Gina teased.

  ‘My songs are so crap nobody would ever want to sing em.’

  ‘Good. At least you’re honest about your talents.’

  ‘Out of self-respect and love for music,’ he said.

  ‘Why bother to write and play them in the first place?’ Gina challenged.

  ‘They’re not for your ears,’ Snot said, snappishly.

  ‘Thank god for that.’

  ‘Right, definitely, cut out all this blinkin bickering you two, will you? No bullshit, you’ve only got a few bloomin minutes to sort it all out,’ their manager warned.

  ‘Keep your hair on, Marty,’ Cat told him.

  Yet the rock mogul was patting her shoulders reassuringly. He didn’t want his biggest asset losing her nerve and running off.

  ‘Listen up to the big Cheese,’ Snot quipped.

  ‘It makes sense,’ I insisted.

  So we agreed to carry Sour Cat’s equipment. Nutcase was afraid she’d fall off her stilettos again, on the way in.

  ‘Don’t worry, I know my limits, mop head,’ Cat teased.

  ‘Gord elp us, Gina love, we all know about your fucking limits!’

  Gorran was trying to spot the rival big hair from EMI. He calculated that the music exec. should be in the building. The fast train had arrived and this EMI big wig had to be hanging about some place. The high-rolling A&R man could be intercepted and schmoozed in advance. He’d surely never met an impresario with such dazzle as Marty Gorran. Even if this EMI A&R bloke was a big power player, he’d be boggle eyed and twitching at Marty’s spiel, like that bunny in the headlights down a country lane.

  Backstage, excitement was building. The cream of Nulton punk - and other youth cults - was in attendance. Most of the Viscous Kittens litter was gathered, just not their tom cat feminist. His absence was more predictable than the three-day week. Under pressure the Kitten crowd was forced to sound check without him. In terms of personnel and gigging, The Who was a more settled outfit: the Kinks was more harmonious: Led Zep was more abstemious. As a result the other Kittens hung about, alternating between the changing room and the corridor outside, looking lost and miserable; including the new backing singers, known as The Fem Felines, at least for five minutes.

  The grumpy bloke with a clipboard was still loitering, and desperate to catch people out. Luckily Marty was able to pester and bamboozle him for a sound check slot. By the time Gorran had finished, this official didn’t want to stay in earshot, and he wouldn’t be able to tell Dolly Parton from Pavarotti.

  ‘Right, definitely everybody, hop along with those blinkin instruments,’ Gorran urged, having secured the deal. He shooed Mortal out of its changing room.

  Moreover he rushed off to hustle in advance. A severe dose of pre-gig hype could prove vital. And even if it didn’t he still enjoyed it.

  ***

  It happened that Gorran found the A&R man. The rock biz visitor was corked on a high stool at the foyer bar. The guy was nursing a whisky and soda by himself, keeping out of the way, doing some outstanding office admin. Despite a fulsome welcome at the leaky train station, where a council leisure committee was stood about as if for a Royal party, Jez Starry seemed a bit lost. He’d been to Nashville and Tokyo that year, only Starry didn’t know what to make of Nulton. Gorran thought it was a case of severe culture shock and urban alienation. Our local rock guru wanted to make the A&R power broker welcome, as well as to twist his arm and refine his taste in music.

  Therefore Nulton’s rock supremo chose the best approach; turning the flexible grin to the correct angle; the friendly hunch to an ideal ingratiating posture. Humbly approaching, feigning surprise, subtly finding the stool next door, Marty’s conversation turned to the local music scene; and to his roster of S&M groups in particular.

  Starry cut a trim, trendy figure, no more than thirty five: in a red silk shirt and black jeans tight as ink stains. He definitely brought the atmosphere of the international music business with him; a rare atmosphere of glamour, money and excess. Marty could almost taste it on his limber and furry tongue, as he closed in, preparing a killer pitch. If Gorran had just a single string of inferiority in his skinny frame, then Starry was the guy to play on it. Marty had never met such a crafty and unreadable character - a rock biz exotic. He half expected Starry to perish in our world, crumble to star dust, quicker than a dog shot up into space.

  Marty hid this uncomfortable feeling as he broke the thin ice. Starry lost patience with this pre-gig blurb, because rightly, as head judge, he couldn’t be influenced.

  Starry’s suntan - acquired from a session in Montserrat - tightened like a dry banana. He refused to listen to any more of Marty’s verbal payola.

  ‘Yeah, sure Marty, see you later,’ Jez said. ‘You going to the après gig party, man?’

  ***

  While this encounter was taking place - in the main foyer bar - Mortal had a nasty surprise waiting. Yes, another one.

  After the NF Disco mauling, racing off to find Gina and Nutcase, the band had had to leave most of their gear behind in the changing room. On their return, anticipating a sound check (which Gorran had extracted with difficulty) they discovered that much of their stuff had been vandalised. There was also graffiti; insults and obscenities; scrawled across walls and over the mirror. Mick Dove had left his calling card.

  ‘I don’t want to look inside that boy’s head,’ Gina said, reading it off.

  ‘Fuck that, look at our gear,’ Snot complained.

  ‘This is where the fascists jumped us,’ I explained to Gina.

  ‘They’ve put a dent in your cymbals, Billy.’

  ‘Feckin Nazi nobs,’ declared the group’s drummer.

  ‘It’s awful. I’m gutted,’ Nutcase said, devastated. It was far worse than any kitchen wall he’d ever plastered. ‘I feel for yer. Honest.’ It was one advantage of having your instrument in your throat.

  ‘We’ve got to get through a sound check... somehow,’ Gina reminded them.

  ‘What with? How? As a fucking skiffle group, or what?’ Stan objected.

  ‘Fair play, Stan bay, why the feck not? I’m goin up there and playing somet’ing. No matter what you lads say, so!’

  ‘If it was good enough for The Beatles,’ Gina argued.

  ‘We aren’t the fucking Beatles. When are you going to cut out that shit?’

  ‘Fair play, we gotta get on stage so,’ Billy considered.

  ‘Or we’re disqualified. Not long before it all starts. They’
ll let the audience in soon,’ Gina said.

  ‘We’ll have another riot on our hands, so we will, lads!’

  As we began to sort through the mess, Stan suddenly became very distressed. He was gripped by panic, which wasn’t like him. He let out a kind of wail, even worse than his singing. Our little Mortal axe man was plunged into despair, practically in tears.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Cat wanted to know.

  ‘Me guitar.’

  ‘Your guitar?’

  ‘Yeah, I can’t find it. My uncle’s guitar has gone. Those fuckers must have stolen it.’

  Most of the gear had simply been tossed about - it was retrievable. We sifted and searched thoroughly, but we couldn’t find Stan’s instrument. Finally we had to admit that his magic guitar was missing, presumed stolen.

  Snot was frantic (how’d he explain this to his family). Somehow Gina and the rest coaxed him to participate in a sound check. Anna-kissed leant him her guitar (despite frosty inter-band relations). Paulie was still nowhere to be found, so her band loyalties were under severe strain.

  The arm twisting with Starry abandoned, Gorran came to the wings, stage right, pulling his big flossy hair out. Stan was really miserable, looking smaller, more hunched, pigeon-chested and awkward than ever. At the same time he didn’t want to get disqualified. Not with all the punks rooting for him.

  The group hadn’t practiced in this line-up for weeks. They had to get the feel for each other again in rapid time. The sound engineers were patient and helped out. There was a lot of stressful fumbling. The group began to get its exciting edge back. The lads began to enjoy their musical company. Obviously the same wasn’t true about off stage relationships. The technicians were beginning to smile. Admittedly, not as broadly as Gorran was.

  Snot had to adjust to a borrowed guitar, very different to Luigi’s mysterious model. Cat meanwhile had to get a feel for his new songs (two of them). He shouted the changes out to her. The shimmer of keyboards was great, even if the sound wasn’t entirely together.

  Snot was unsettled by the theft. I wondered if his heart would be in the contest, after such a disaster. Somehow he had to find the guitar and recover his punk spirit.

  37. Paulie Drowns His Kittens (And Gets a Shock)

  Meanwhile, there was still no sign of Paulie. Not a hair or a sexed-up meow. Already he’d missed a sound-check and the Kittens were frantic. Admittedly the cub reporter was famous for erratic behaviour and late appearances. Nobody had been able to get in touch with him during the day, either at home or work. Obviously he was out of touch during the night. They didn’t want to guess his intentions because his mind was like the Bermuda Triangle.

  Then, the clock ticking, just when his group was beginning to mutiny, Wellington amazed everybody by showing. They were huddled in an emergency conference, deciding how to continue, slagging him off, when he put his head around the door. He breezed in as if he was doing them and the whole music business a massive favour. Oddly, at this moment, he had his work suit jacket hooked over his shoulder, as if merely calling by. In a charming and matey mood, those blue eyes gleaming with cheer, he greeted his hired musicians, as if wristwatches and promises had never been invented.

  Dennis noticed him first. ‘Hey everybody, it’s dat Paulie boy. Wha’ppen wi you Paulie? We didn’ expect you so late? Where you been hangin’ out, man?’

  ‘Paulie’s here!’ Herb declared.

  ‘What the fuck time do you call this?’ Anna-kissed shouted at him.

  ‘Knock me down with feather,’ Dennis remarked, on his feet.

  ‘We’ve had the sound check. We’ve gone through your songs, trying to make sense of them. I wasn’t going to sing that rubbish... unless you did, mate!’ Anna confronted him.

  ‘Phew, calm down lads, what’s up with you lot? What’s the big deal, eh? I’m here now, aren’t I? Where do you think I was?’ Wellington wondered, with an ironic chuckle.

  ‘Fucking Shetland Islands,’ Herb objected.

  ‘Yeah, maybe, so just give us a bit of notice, Paulie man,’ Dennis suggested.

  ‘You already got permission to leave work early. To get our gear...to change... to go through the sound check,’ Anna-kissed reminded him. ‘Don’t give us any more fucking stories.’

  ‘Okay Anna, but some of us have got a real job to do,’ Paulie commented.

  ‘You got this band final scheduled, weeks ago,’ Herb said.

  ‘Paulie man, we already been and done a sound check. You wasn’t anywhere, man! You’re just wastin’ dis band’s time!’ The sticks magician had changed into a string vest and sweat bands.

  As if inspired by this observation, Wellington protested. ‘Come on Dennis mate, keep your bloody shirt on. I’ve been slaving away in the bloody newspaper office all day, if you must know.’

  ‘Seen, Paulie man, bu’ you knew we had the big gig tonight!’ Dennis said, glaring. ‘Y’want to get here on time, boy! Why yer messin us about for?’

  ‘Okay, phoo, don’t get into a heavy atmosphere, Dennis mate. Here I am now. I’m still bloody vocalist and songwriter, aren’t I? So I got here as soon as I humanly could,’ Paulie argued. He was stunned by their unreasonable insensitivity.

  ‘You didn’t rehearse or practice this week,’ said the Kittens guitarist.

  ‘Come on, Anna, you don’t need me for last minute practice. You got the tunes by now. They’re all my bloody songs, aren’t they? I took ages over those tracks. Anyway, I know how to sing... and I know my own songs, don’t I. So help me out on this.’ He had a hurt expression.

  ‘Incredible you ever jumped into bed with this idiot,’ Herb remarked.

  ‘Right, phew, so you want to be a sexist now as well, do you Herb?’ Paulie challenged.

  ‘Right so where’s your gear Paulie?’ Anna-kissed asked. She noticed him standing about, pink faced, yet empty handed.

  ‘I got here from the bloody office,’ he told her numbly.

  ‘So what are you telling us?’ Herb told him, furiously.

  ‘Get you, Paulie. Do you think we’re all fucking dimwits?’ she yelled.

  ‘What yer up to, Paulie man?’

  ‘Phoo, relax. I only popped by to see how you were doing. Thanks a lot for the support. Now I’ve got to nip back home to change... to find my instrument and stuff.’

  ‘Not those ludicrous bongos,’ Herb despaired.

  ‘Oh my god!’

  ‘And don’t think I’m wearing that stupid blouse you came up with.’

  ‘What do you mean? Those are our stage costumes,’ Paulie reminded him. ‘What’s bloody wrong with the costumes, all of a sudden?’

  ‘Wipe your arse with them,’ Herb suggested.

  ‘Phew, that’s a really dodgy comment!’

  ‘I’m this town’s Brian Ferry. Tell him, Anna. I’m not wearing those smocks. I love fashion.’

  ‘Those are Egyptian suns, like bloody Sun Ra mate,’ Wellington rebuked him.

  ‘Suns? Or giant egg stains? You want to come over like Joni Mitchell or what’s the idea?’

  ‘Okay, I hear you. So keep your cool, Herb mate... you should mind that bloody ego of yours, mate,’ Paulie suggested, with an ironic laugh. ‘It’s getting out of control.’

  ‘There’s no time for return ‘ome trip now, Paulie man,’ Dennis warned.

  ‘What if we’re first on? How can you get home and back again... in time to play our slot?’

  ‘All right, Anna, I’ll get back as soon as I humanly can, all right. I just dropped in to say hello to you lads. Why did I bloody bother?’ Wellington said, huffing in disappointment, loosening his tie a jot.

  ‘That’s great isn’t it? You expect us to hang around, in the remote hope that you may join us on time.’

  ‘Come on Herb, don’t get your knickers in a twist, mate. You’re no
t on that stage yet,’ Paulie protested, with a sarcastic noise.

  ‘Are you committed to this group or not?’ Anna challenged.

  ‘Phoo, it’s my group, isn’t it? I invited you to join, didn’t I?’

  ‘He’s a waste of space.’

  ‘Phew, a really dodgy attitude. There’s no need to be aggressive. Who pulled your nose?’ Wellington wanted to know.

  ‘Okay, Paulie, don’t yer hang around man. If ya late, I’m t’rowin down me sticks an callin’ the whole gig off. D’ya get me, Paulie man?’ McDonald warned. ‘I didn’ join ya band to be mucked about like this.’

  ‘Come on Dennis, bloody hell, who’s mucking who around?’ Paulie told him, blowing air. The lead Kitten looked hurt and surprised by unjustified criticisms. He was a genius surrounded by these unfeeling dullards.

  Apart from the sex, you had to say, his life was a complete shambles.

  ***

  Roy Smith came along later. He wasn’t in any group, so he wasn’t under any pressure, not even to recruit new SWP members. In his case he really was doing us a favour. Finishing his hours at the tax office, he’d changed into his after-work proletarian-wear.

  Roy and I intended to sell copies of Ob-scene fanzine. In addition he wanted to flog a whole alternative bookshop of radical publications. All that stuff had to go under the counter. In Roy’s opinion, if the punks kicked up an insurrection, it might be the trigger for a worldwide revolution.

  ‘Away, Bottle, you’re not lookin’ in such fine fettle tonight, man. So what the bloody hell happened to yer, marra?’ Roy wondered. He noticed all the cuts and bruises.

  ‘Another close shave with those NF boys,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh nawh! Norragen, comrade! When did this happen mind?’

  ‘In the changing room. Before the band sound-checked. What’s worse, we reckon they nicked Stan’s guitar.’

  He wrung his lank fringe in anguish. The eyes glittered with indignation. ‘Away man, what’s he going to do now?’

  ‘Well, he borrowed Anna-kissed’s guitar. No, it doesn’t sound too bad. Better than nothing... Snot isn’t happy though.’