by Neil Rowland
Unsurprisingly the owner of Keith Smidgens’ Keyboards was most enthusiastic. The other judges were middle-aged rockists to a man. Their task was to scribble down impressions during performances. At the end of each set they consulted with one another, compared notes, until agreeing on a rough score. At the end of the entire competition, when every band had played a set, would they agree on final positions.
Amyl Exciters divided the panel. But there were a lot of groups yet to play, so which way would they go?
There was intense expectation, an atmosphere of tension and imminent violence. Inevitable when all the best punk bands were gigging on the same night for such a prize. Fans steadily crammed into the auditorium, expecting fireworks. There was a strong possibility, with revolutionary socialists, anarchists, soccer casuals and fascists tossed into the mix, that they wouldn’t be disappointed.
Nothing beats the excitement of a good gig. Put behind all your daily cares and troubles, whatever they are. Put your heart, soul and body into the music and the bands you support. Feel part of a scene that is bigger than you; and nothing without you, the fan. Join with all those lads and girls who are into the same groups. Hook up with people you have an affinity for. Get the hum of energy and chat inside the venue, as everybody waits for that inspirational racket to kick off. Enjoy the chance to socialise with your mates, rather than to be harried by your boss, or threatened by the bailiff or belittled by the YOP bloke. Take a break from the narrow-minded bloke at the Job Centre who bullies you into a shit job, and implies that you’re lazy. All the bullies and scalds, too mean and selfish to acknowledge the dreams and aspirations of youth. Forget there’s a great big hammer pointed towards the back of your head, for most of your life.
***
Turbo Overdrive was next up. Marty was glued to the bar like a coat of varnish. Apparently, while Turbo was rocking away, he was anxiously nodding, mouthing the lyrics (however dumb), and rapping his knuckles. If hard rock was never Marty’s scene Rob definitely lit his fire. The top music manager was staring through the proscenium arch with love light in his eyes. He followed Rob and Spike’s outrageous moves, totting up a potential score, like the trainer of a top ice dancer. Blind love gave them a chance in hell, and I wasn’t going to be the snowball.
Rob Shaw was eye-catching and charismatic as a front man. Marty wasn’t the only one besotted. Rob and the lead guitarist, Spike Murray (a heavily muscled, whiskered guy in a leather tank top) bounced off each other. They had a great stage rapport, despite legendary fist fights away from it. Clowning and camp routines got the crowd whipped up, and musically the melodic songs had full metal treatment. Spike went in for extended solos, in honour of his own guitar heroes. While he was absorbed in doing that, you might go outside and find an Indian restaurant on the high street, and still get back in time for his finale. In fact Spike put the band over time, and they were penalised. That most likely did for their chances.
Notwithstanding, I’d heard worse HM bands than TO. Victory would be against the odds. Frankly, if they did win this competition (and there were a handful of rockists on the panel) then I would volunteer for the vacuum factory, to be honest with you.
Gorran realised the band’s deficiencies, while keeping faith and loyalty towards his boyfriend. The music magnate kept those doubts to his narrow chest and was hoping for the best. Anyway, the group was very popular with the Nulton heavy rock fraternity, male and female. Those lads had a great time for the price of their tickets. Turbo offered them a chance to practice air-guitar routines. The dust heads were piled up at the front, whisking their long hair in front of speaker towers, as the music rattled at crunching volume.
There weren’t enough metal fans in the Civic Hall that night. Overall it was the year of punk.
39. Shock Tactics
While Rob and Spike were busy grandstanding, I wandered backstage to find out how Mortal was getting along (if that’s the phrase). For a while Gina had been out of sonic range and began to trigger mental controversy. I wanted to make sure she didn’t suffer the shake rattle and rolls again.
On my way along the back stage corridors, I picked up sounds of jubilation and hilarity coming from Amyl Exciters’ dressing room. They were already having a bit of a party. The atmosphere with my friends was more subdued. That was understandable, as they had not yet played or decided on their set. Yet that Graffiti on walls and mirrors, of abusive slogans, both political and personal, didn’t lift the mood. This didn’t overly bother Stan because, as he pointed out, the Music Box’s changing room wasn’t exactly a suite at the Ritz either. Anyway Snot revelled in these punk conflicts and antagonisms. What most affected him was the loss of Luigi’s guitar.
Without a word Steve Fenton dashed home to fetch his spare Albanez. This guitar was definitely very handy and good looking. Curious to try it, Snot hunched tinkering with finger holds. It couldn’t replace Luigi’s magical instrument. How could you ignore a guitar that had been played by Burton and touched by Presley? The Albanez was a beautiful replacement, even if the theft had left a crater in Stan’s soul. But I’d a feeling that if he couldn’t find the magic guitar, then the magic guitar would find him.
***
This was the definitive line up of Mortal Wound that played the final of the Battle of the Bands competition:
Stan Snot - lead guitar, backing vocals
Sour Cat - Rhythm gt, backing vcls and keyboards
Big Nut - vocals
Billy Urine - drums
Steve Fenton - bass
Yet, as I pushed into the room (by then crowded with mates of the band, partners and many hangers on) I didn’t find Gina among them. There was some alcohol being passed around (with sweet smelling smokes) but not enough to satisfy Cat. Plus it was too noisy and crowded for her in a pre-gig situation. She couldn’t endure that - she’d try to hide away some place. So I realised that our Sour Cat had performed her famous disappearing act, in search of musical obscurity. Whenever my back was turned, she’d get the sound of jangling nerves. Typically the rest of them just ignored the situation. Even though they depended on her as a vital band member, they assumed she’d somehow get back.
‘Wake up, you lot. Why didn’t you look out for Cat?’ I objected.
It was hard to make myself noticed or to get heard. Snot’s voice came out of the throng, amid is fan club. ‘What are you fretting about now, Bottle?’
‘What? Our Gina. D’you know where she is?’
‘She’s already got her Daddy. Let her go for her walkies. It’s in her nature, Bottle, to deal with her demons... and she’ll feel better for it... when she comes back... from her fucking adventures.’
Even if there was a twisted logic to that argument it was perilous.
‘You been fucking smoking too much, Stan, or what?’ I snapped back.
With a roll of the dark romantic eyes, a jerk of the bristly chin, Snot warned me off. Once more he focussed on finding something new. The world could burn, sometimes, as far as Snot was concerned.
‘Fair play now, Bottle,’ Billy put in, ‘let Cat have a few jars to steady her nerves. She’s probably gone to the foyer bar there. Don’t give her such a h-ard time now. She’ll join the rest of us lads later so!’
‘After her temple hits the floor,’ I argued.
‘You need some nerve to play in this band.’
‘She’ll go an’ crack ‘er fuckin ed.’
‘Don’t go and get pessimistic, Nut.’
Big Nut was gargling to relieve his ‘noodles’. At the same time his wife was using a small brush to re-apply glue to his Mohican.
‘Don’t blame me if it’s a shambles,’ I objected.
‘This is rock ‘n’ roll, Bottle,’ Snot informed me.
‘Yeah, right, so you’re relaxed? If anything happens to her... her parents are gonna sue you.’
‘Poor littl
e gel was out fuckin cold,’ Nut recalled.
‘Her parents are here tonight,’ I warned. ‘Marty got ‘em a pair of tickets... he says they’re watching from the second tier.’
‘So they can drive her to the hospital,’ Snot suggested.
‘Glad you’re so bloody concerned.’
‘She’s lyin on ‘er feckin back somewhere lads... on the care-pet somewhere, as we speak now... so she is!’
‘It’s only fucking stage fright,’ Stan argued.
That set me off spluttering with indignation. ‘What? You don’t have a gig... Or you don’t have any chance of winning,’ I argued, wound up. ‘Not without our Gina!’
‘Gina this, Gina fucking that. So don’t hang about whining,’ Stan argued, ‘go and fucking get our canary back. This could be your chance, couldn’t it?’
I still felt the heat. ‘Right, so maybe I’ll do that.’
‘Start wid the foyers there,’ Billy suggested. ‘Yeah, she’ll be around there now, Bottle mate. Yeah, look around them bars bay, if I was you now.’
‘Buy her a drink,’ Stan suggested.
Snot could definitely piss me off sometimes. No wonder that we used to fight over close games of Subuteo and ‘War’.
***
As Music Mail’s ‘latest celebrity columnist’ I didn’t have to worry about tuning an instrument. As the S&M roving fanzine reporter, I had licence to wander about.
On reaching the first level balcony, I found Roy with a bunch of his SWP comrades. Apart from enjoying the occasion, they were busy flogging copies of Ob-scene and other more radical publications. The Smith confirmed that Gina had stopped by; she had chatted and flicked through our fanzine. It was satisfying to know she’d been interested. Noticing my distress Roy tried to help. He thought she was heading towards the next floor, rickety on stilettos and rejecting numerous unwelcome advances along the way.
Without any time to waste, I darted off, Oxfam coattails flapping. Along the way there was an incident, which showed that she faced other dangers, more than the average hormonal lad. While I was heading to the third floor, pushing through crowds on the stairs, I came up against Mick Dove. He was getting psyched for his own set with his Dildo mates. Unfortunately he had more sinister ideas than just duffing me up again.
‘If it ain’t Nulton’s famous music journalist,’ he remarked.
‘Yeah, yeah, well...’
‘What you fucking doing?’
‘You haven’t returned to your Fatherland yet?’
‘Don’t be cheeky, guppy face,’ he said, with a cold smirk.
‘This is our country and we an’t going nowhere,’ added his bass player.
‘Happy holidays!’
‘How’s that commie band you support?’ Dove jeered.
‘Rehearsing,’ I said.
‘What for?’
‘Wait and hear.’
‘How can they do that?’
‘Talent will out,’ I suggested.
‘Talent, fucking talent,’ he scoffed. ‘If they try and play this gig, I promise ... I fucking promise... they won’t be leaving the building... not in one piece, any of ‘em.’
‘I’ll pass on your message of support.’
He didn’t worry me at all, although the drummer did. This lad was massive as a side of beef in the Co-op fridge, with about as much feeling in his body.
‘If Snot plays this gig, the patriots are gonna crack his skull,’ Dove warned.
I began to shoot side-looks, worried about finding Cat. ‘Mortal gigs are always a riot.’
Dove looked me over with a forensic eye. ‘What you doing anyway? Why aren’t you back with that shit band... licking Stan’s arse as normal?’
I was uneasy at disclosing the truth. ‘Stretching my legs,’ I said.
‘Stretching your legs?’ The pale eyes examined me with a sneer. ‘Shouldn’t you be watching the bands? Making some notes? So you can write those crap articles?’
‘Just getting a feel for the atmosphere,’ I told him.
‘What you wandering around for? Someone missing?’
At this point I chose to notice Mick’s new hairstyle. It was also a Mohican style crop, with red, white and blue dyed into it.
He noticed my glance. ‘We’re not ashamed of patriotism,’ he snarled, in his low frequency way.
‘Right. Well, definitely striking,’ I said. Surely that would put him off my trail.
‘As it happens, Bottle, I’m glad to find you,’ Dove told me.
‘Oh? Glad? I’m not interested in politics. Anyway, not half as much as you lads are.’
Dove took a step nearer. ‘This isn’t to do with politics.’
‘Yeah, we wanted to find yer,’ said the drummer. His only talent in life was for hitting things.
‘We’re looking for that girl in Snot’s band. D’you know where she is?’
‘You’re looking for her? Sour Cat?’ I replied warily.
‘Whatever she fucking calls herself. We’re gonna ask her round the back. Then we’re gonna jump her.’
‘Jump her? What are you talking about?’
Dove set his jaw into a lock. ‘We’re gonna bang her. She’s fit,’ he leered. ‘You can join in, if you want. We’ll call a truce. Don’t you want a bit? We’ll all gonna take her after the show.’
Three of his mates came in and bustled around me, as if the cuts and bruises had never happened.
Dove’s voice was down to a tense whisper. ‘Don’t think she’ll run to the Old Bill. No, no, they never do. She’ll be too ashamed to tell her own mother,’ he told me, in his whispery voice.
I must have gaped in amazement. Even if Dove had form, as I remembered from college days, it was shocking. Certainly he didn’t stop at shooting porno films, blackmail and robbery. In fact where would he stop?
***
The NF boys had all foyers covered, intending to pick her off. If I didn’t take care, I’d just lead them to her. They were suspicious, knowing that Gina and I were friends. What I did to evade them was to slip back into the auditorium for a while.
When I got there - breathing more deeply - the next band on stage was Big Tits. They were a three piece militant lesbian punk group. They lived up to their name and felt no risk from Steel Dildo. Even before they’d got through the first song they had stripped off to the waist. The riotous behaviour which followed, and which fully tested Troy Cock’s security staff, was predictable. Troy Boy’s heavies waded into the mosh pit and began to drag out scores of over-enthusiastic youth trying to get on stage to express their lust.
By that point of the evening it was too late to pull the plug on the whole show. The organisers had already discussed the idea (we learnt) but realised it would spark an even bigger ruckus: the venue was packed, drink had been drunk, hormones and chemicals released.
I recognised our veteran MP for Nulton South, Ivor Handout, standing up in outrage from his VIP seat. That rarely happened in the House of Commons. The wife of the Lord Mayor - a bizarre mutation of Dame Edna Everidge, Elsie Tanner and Mary Whitehouse - was gagging into her ladies’ handkerchief. Why did these people turn up to the event? What did they expect? Didn’t they have any idea about the punk rock movement?
The buxom trio’s opening tune ‘Lesbian Laughs’ reached a shrill climax. Most punk songs had the classic three minute pop single duration. Big Tits and Diana Ross and the Supremes had the same idea in that way. The lead singer (and terrible guitarist) Penny Tits was a big strapping girl with yellow haystack hair. As the crowd struggled to overcome screeches of feedback, Penny strutted to the stage edge and began to torment wild pogo-ing lads. The effect was total pandemonium.
Councillor Fairbright also got up and gesticulated towards the stage. This was beginning to resemble a ‘standing ovation’. The
show wasn’t going according local government plans. The intended youth talent show (all too polite applause rounded off with a pointless judging competition) was turning into a nightmare. They’d unleashed the punk beast. Why hadn’t they made a phone call to Grundy?
Faced with this shocking display of indecent punk mayhem the MP for Nulton North, sitting on a very slender majority, was equally ‘gob smacked’. As I mentioned, all the local dignitaries, bigwigs and celebrities, had turned up for this concert, expecting a version of Eurovision or ‘The Gang Show’. Instead they got the shock of their bloody lives.
Then again, maybe, Penny had just innocently forgotten to put on her knickers that day. If only she hadn’t unzipped her bondage pants in the first place.
Penny later explained how she was trying to satirise stereotypes of femininity. She was sending up exploitation, debunking the ‘phallic signifier’. That didn’t go down well with VIPs on the night. The organisers and the Lord Mayor hadn’t been on the same course as Penny - they hadn’t done a module on Gender Studies at Nulton Arts.
Musically Big Tits made The Slits sound as tight as the Berliner Ensemble. As if a petrol lawnmower had blown up in someone’s shed, they produced an incredible racket with catastrophic effects. And it went along to these priceless lyrics:
Scumbags ‘a society
Enemies ‘a propriety
Husbands’ assassins
Enemies of sexists
Here we come, here we come
Watch out punk boys
We’re the killer, killer, killer dykes
We’re the killer, killer, killer dykes
(Killer Dykes)
Naturally there was uproar in the hall, and once again we made out ambulance sirens, bearing down on the place.
When the brawling and shouting had finally settled back down, the auditorium fell into a hum of astonishment and hilarity, as those remaining fans (sober enough) assessed the band’s performance.
