by Neil Rowland
Anyway it would be something to tell the grandchildren about.
40. That’s Entertainment
Exploiting his reputation as Nulton’s big name music manager Marty swooped in to sign up Big Tits.
How could Tits ever impress Marty, you may wonder? During this period if any band failed to shock or amaze, it wasn’t worth getting conscious in the morning. Soup Dragons, Wire, Pere Ubu, Television, became part his rock ‘n’ roll nervous system. Marty always had an eye for a genuine media event of his own making; a pop outrage to bring his bands to public attention. Big Tits - too smart for their social roles and too large for their bras - had potential to do that. So Gorran snapped them up on the G spot.
You only had to listen to Gorran talking about music, or to flick through his record collection or attend one of his ‘CONTEMPTORY Music’ or ‘Pink Pants’ disco nights to understand his instincts. The local maverick had reliable insights about pop music; which was, according to Brian Epstein, a mixture of music, performance and art. Or as Dave Crock used to put it:
‘Marty boy, ee knows is moosic!’
The punk sage and I kept our distance from the assortment of thugs. Troy’s security guys continued to eject rioters. These lads didn’t put a dent into the Lord Mayor’s limo, because it had long left its reserved space. No doubt our Right Worshipful was back at home, feet up with a brew, watching That’s Life on telly.
Les Phoenix, hearing that S&M had got Big Tits on its books, was more outspoken about their appeal. The American eagle fixed us from his lofty nook in the rafters.
‘Well, gee Marty, you shittin me over this group, man? Who are these freakin little chicks anyway?’ he smirked. ‘Shoot, these gels cairnt sing and, sure as hell man, they cairnt play. Shoot, this is the worst group in this entire freakin English barn dance. How you gonna get these chicks to cut a hit rec’rd, baby?’
‘Right, definitely, Big Tits is the tightest little girl group since Fanny down at the blinkin Ballroom. Fair play, I didn’t have to think too hard about grabbing bloomin Big Tits.’
As we know, Phoenix’s Cadillac was parked up at the kerb. Its engine was ticking over, the chauffeur (Vic from next door) was kept on high alert for Betsy Dandie’s triumphant exit. Then Les would accompany her to a private party at Les’ ‘Roadhouse’ as he insisted on calling his local. Next morning the Texan rock maestro would place that call to Benatar’s people for better terms, including an upgraded dressing room with a hair dryer.
Phoenix’s sequinned all-black body suit was worn in Presley’s honour, to mark the legend’s passing. The king was dead, long live the king. A few lads said he looked more like Alvin Stardust. That was unkind. They forgot how Les was one of the glittering rock celebrities in town.
‘A friendly word of advice here, Marty baby. We’ve been in the moosic industry together now... for how long is it, Marty? Gee, its years man... and we know it’s a tough industry to pitch to. You should know that by now... Shoot, it’s all about the matoo-er adult market. Otherwise I was wastin my freakin time in Austin, man. If you’re ever gonna get that big US break, you gotta find the big bucks and shift units.’
Marty ran fingers into the electrical atmosphere of his hair. ‘Straight up Les mate, you couldn’t have any more bloomin potential than these talented little girls in Big Tits.’
Betsy bustled over to our party and joined in. ‘Hey, Marty, how yer doin man! I hear you signed em up? Fuckin Bit Tits! Why do you rate those dumb chicks?’
‘Right, definitely, why do I blinkin rate ‘em? No bullshit Betsy,’ here he held the smile and began nodding in a visionary way, saying, ‘this Big Tits outfit is the most exciting little kick-arse feminist punk group I’ve seen since this whole fucking punk phenomenon first kicked orf here in bloomin England.’
‘Marty I’m surprised. You turned all fuckin hetero, man? What do you see in em gels? You of all people, man. They suck,’ Betsy insisted, making a disgusted face. ‘These gels can’t even play their instruments.’
Gorran chose a disarming tack. ‘Right, definitely Betsy, when does playing an instrument come into it? No bullshit, give em a chance to learn a few more chords and polish up their bloomin stage show first,’ he insisted, fighting a battle with his rugged dentistry.
‘What was that fuckin dope trying to achieve... taking her shirt off?’ Dandie objected, with a dry laugh. ‘Man, I was gonna ralph my fucking dinner. Yuck, what was all that about? Does she think she’s gonna influence the judges that way?’
She had a fair point, though the rockist judges’ tongues were hanging out into their beers.
With a thinly sardonic smile, Les Phoenix considered his rock rival’s error. ‘Sure Marty, you wanna listen to our Betsy here, cos how you gonna get these English chicks over in Freespring, Idaho or Catspaw, Ohio?’
‘Right, definitely, same way I get ‘em over in Nulton. Fair play, why should I want to worry about that, Les mate?’ the pop guru said, twitching anxiously.
‘If you can’t break your artists past Salt Lake, Marty baby, you cairnt make it no place in the US of A.’
Les raised another tumbler of Jack D, savouring the warm fumes around the interior of his shark-fin nostrils.
‘Straight up Les, the big plan’s for Big Tits to grab one of those big blinkin prizes tonight, and get ‘em up headlining in Duncehead by next weekend.’
The Lone Star CEO brought down the shadow of his hat brim. ‘Shoot, if you ain’t played LA, Marty man, you ain’t even started in the biz,’ Les argued. ‘Period.’
‘We’re gonna blow that buncha losers from the hall,’ Betsy promised.
‘Right, definitely, these girls can be blinkin huge if they get some good fucking management behind them,’ Gorran claimed.
‘No bullshit Marty, you ain’t got cat’s chance in hell with these punk guys. You ain’t gonna cut it, dealin your greasy acts in little ole England. Gee baby, you’ve got to start swingin in the States before the Day. It might sound like a hard pitch, but all my goddamn acts are getting past first base. Sooner or later we get to play freakin hard ball,’ Les rumbled, squinting into the far horizon and savouring another mouthful.
‘Right, definitely, Les mate, cos we’re going to see about that won’t we.’
‘Jeez Marty, get real. Will you, man? You wanna find yourself a little gel with a big goddamn voice. And with genu-wine star quorlity.’ Les was complacent under his Sunday chapel Stetson.
‘Straight up, Les mate, England’s where it’s all blinkin happening at the moment. Fair play, they’ve passed the punk baton from fucking Alphabet City be now.’
‘Sure thing, nobody rocks like Betsy and the boys,’ Phoenix declared. ‘Hell and she even looks freakin great!’
‘I’m startin to feel sorry for these chickens,’ Betsy joked.
‘We’re talkin big bucks, Marty, on the line for an extra show with Benatar at Birmin’ham,’ Les boasted. ‘You shoulda been at her last freakin show. No bull man, she brought the goddamn roof down on that freakin barn. That’s what it feels like baby.’
‘Right, definitely Les, if it gets us out the flat,’ Marty commented.
‘Sure,’ Betsy put in, ‘cos one day that little joint is gonna have a blue plaque above the door, showing everyone where Les Phoenix used to live.’ The feisty Baltimore rocker came to her manager’s defence on her stack heels.
Marty was keeping Mortal Wound’s crisis secret from the Red Rooster boss. He turned to me, Sotto Voce, and suggested, ‘Fair play, Bottle, what you doing hanging about here? Straight up, go and hop it, don’t waste any more blinkin time on Les’ hype. Get off and see if you can find Gina. Gord elp us, she’ll go and crack her blinkin head again and it’ll be fucking curtains for the bloomin lot of us.’ He started shooing me away.
‘Right, I’ll do my best. I already searched the foyer bars. And Dove’s looking for her
too,’ I warned.
Gorran gave a wince. ‘Right, definitely, get off and find her then Bottle. No bullshit, before she burns another hole through her fucking stomach. Fair play, I can’t chat up her blinkin parents again by the side of an ‘ospital bed.’
‘Okay man, so did you know John Lennon was raised in a council apartment?’ Betsy declared.
Phoenix was gloating beneath the brim.
***
I slipped away in search of the AWOL punkette.
I came to re-join Roy at our Ob-scene stall. Apart from occupying the vanguard of the working-class, Smith had been joined by Sandra Gorran. The Trotskyite benefactor was flirting, awkwardly, with the media mogul’s older sister. She resembled her charismatic brother a bit, although her features were tuned down, along with the personality. Our fanzine was continuing to fly from the table, not all of them nicked. Punks crowded around to flick through and so the piles of our fanzine began to dwindle. Local rock fans wanted to read about those groups taking part in the final of the Battle.
Roy had a fraternal glint, because, not only had he taken a shine to Sandra, but the SWP paper and other socialist publications were seriously shifting units as well.
‘All right Smithy? How’s it going, mate? Have you seen our Gina?’
‘No marra, not for a while, like. Not since you last sauntered past mind.’
I was starting to pull my spiked hair out. ‘The band’s worried about her. She’s missing.’
‘Nothing new there, comrade.’
‘She looked in a bit of a state,’ Sandra said.
Sandra had an office job (not untypical for punks) which did not involve moonlighting in the music business like her brother - just on finals’ night. Clearly she wasn’t into the punk scene (either the music or fashion). She had no obvious taste for subversion, media outrage, record contracts or the other stuff.
‘Which way’d she go?’ I wanted to know.
‘That way, comrade,’ Roy pointed. In that pose he resembled a statue of Lenin.
‘She could be slumped in a doorway,’ I stressed. ‘Swigging from a brown paper bag.’
‘Away man, you think you’ve got problems with Gina mind. How’d you like to go and find Paulie for us and all?’ Roy bemoaned the tom cat’s erratic behaviour.
‘You mean, he’s not turned up yet?’
‘Nawh man! It’s a dreadful situ-ation mind. The Kittens are s’posed to be up on stage in aboot an hour like. The daft bas’tad promised us he’d be back here in time to plee.’
Roy’s lively eyes began to pop and dart behind those thick smudged spectacle lenses. There was definitely another ‘Paulie episode’ in the making. He could almost relish it, apart from the fallout.
‘Dove frightened him off,’ I speculated.
‘Nawh, that’s not it, Bottle man. I don’t reckon it’s the fascists like. In my opinion the daft bugger’s getting coold feet again... and about this whoole punk rock movement, mind.’
‘Don’t count him out yet,’ I said. ‘The chance of being a pop superstar will get the better of him.’
‘Ai, well, his band are weetin... while that buffoon’s coolin’ his fuckin’ heels at hoom, mind... primpin’ up his curls like,’ Roy complained, with a tremor of dread and resentment. He began to frisk himself for the inhaler, as the lungs stiffened. It wasn’t in his jeans’ pocket, so it had to be inside the jacket, didn’t it. ‘I know him well enough, man. He’s changing his mind about bein’ in a group. He won’t be able to get away with this one, marra... Not if he lets that group doon again, mind.’
‘Ego will get the better of him,’ I suggested. ‘Anyway, talking about letting your group down. I have to go and bring back Sour Cat. Sure she was off in this direction?’
I could easily visualise Paulie trying to forget all about a Battle of the Bands final and being Kittens’ front man. He’d a talent for amnesia after losing all interest. He’d be hanging around the Mansion, at that moment, enjoying having the whole place to himself, and waiting for the next big thing to come along. And the constant danger of coming second would play on his mind. Or maybe a girl had sparked his libido on the way home.
‘To be entirely honest,’ Herb admitted, ‘we’re getting desperate.’
Anna-kissed and he had the Civic Hall under surveillance, looking for their lost cub reporter. The crisis drew them out of the dressing room to prowl the venue, when we bumped in to each other.
‘Any ideas where that dopey dip has got to? Can you help us?’ Anna pleaded.
I had no new information for their Missing Person Report. We had to presume that Wellington was distracted. In fact only a Grammy award for best pop newcomer could tempt him back. Even then something different might turn up on the journey over, like a girl sat next to him on the plane or the offer of a starring movie role.
‘Gina was in the Ladies,’ Anna mentioned. ‘I saw her in there... If you’re looking.’
‘What? You mean... in the toilets?’
‘That’s it. She was trying to retouch her lipstick but kept missing.’
‘Right, so I’ll wait for her to come out.’
‘How she can miss that mouth of hers.?’ Anna bitched.
I took the insult. ‘She’s the heart and soul of that band. Don’t go bad-mouthing her. There’s no way Mortal can win without her,’ I told them.
‘Uh, huh... She’s the band wrecker.’
‘At present we’ve lost our idiot of a singer,’ Herb said, flouncing in a silk shirt and tossing his long, tinted fringe.
Wiggling their bottoms in contempt, they waltzed off along that balcony. David Attenborough had more chance of locating Paulie.
Any man will tell you how embarrassing it can be, to stroll by mistake into a ladies’ public loo. To begin with I resorted to calling her name from outside. Contending with the background noise of crowds and music, it would be hard to get my voice heard from inside. It was like trying to whisper something into Beethoven’s ear.
I had to change tactics; so I began to ask female patrons to enquire within on my behalf. Not surprisingly that got me some funny looks and a few negative comments. I was in danger of getting my neck wrung by one of them or by Crock Security. I looked a bit of a sight anyway after getting duffed up, with some fruity bruises.
Faced with such frustration, the only solution was to force a way in. After watching the movements of girls a bit, their coming and going, I got a sense of a rhythm; or the frequency of usage. So when the footfall dropped off - so to speak - I steeled my nerves and pushed inside.
The ladies’ loo was better equipped than ours. It was a more pleasant environment in general (so I noted in wonder) with quality towels, soap products and electrical appliances. It had a prettier and more soothing colour scheme, as if disposing of body waste was poetic. For a few moments I was enchanted by a heavenly mood. But this wasn’t the moment to apply a Barthesian reading of toilet architecture. No, that type of thinking would have to wait. This was the time and the place for direct action.
A few girls were hiding out in the stalls. I even got a hint of whimpering and breathing, as if they were afraid. This made it hard for me to find Mortal’s backing vocalist. At opportune moments a girl’d burst out and make a dash for freedom. I was lucky one of them didn’t bag me. New patrons strolled in, only to cop eyes on me and run away immediately. For me this was turning into a kind of dating nightmare. It was doing my confidence no good. It was the opposite of being a rock star, or watching an old movie of ‘teen hysteria’ run backwards. Within a few minutes I’d cleared the room.
Except, amidst this insane confusion, I noticed one of the cubicles remained bolted. Its door was clearly locked when I tried it.
Caution didn’t operate, as I entered the next cubicle and shinned up the partition. Straining hard I put my chin over and looked down i
nto the occupied one. Gina was slumped over the bowl there, staring into a pool of her own vomit. It had to be hers. Not a pretty sight, other than for Gina. I hauled myself all the way over - boots, overcoat and all - and dropped down to release the catch.
Cat was awkwardly positioned, so she’d jammed the door back. I was reluctant to move her, seeing the condition she was in. She was keeping a vodka bottle company - it was her favourite label - like a poor old vagrant in Nulton’s main square at night. How did she get hold of a whole bottle? That wasn’t the most relevant question. With my hands under her armpits, I managed to lift her up on to the famous stilettos, and to lead her out of there, before a Crock thug asked what I was doing.
Fortunately new entrants recognised an emergency. A pair of Goths conquered their panic attacks and came to our aid. If they felt comfortable around vampires and the undead they could definitely put up with Gina and me. Between us we lifted Gina up on her heels, with a few alarming slides, and out of that stall. It didn’t take long before she threw up again. This time it was into a sink. So we had to clean her up a bit more. In the end she barely had any punk cosmetics. What a great night this was turning into!
How could she ever beat stage fright of this intensity? Why risk turning herself into one of those rock ‘n’ roll fatalities? What was the sense in turning into an anonymous rock casualty? What’s the appeal of being a post-obit pin up on a teenager’s bedroom wall? Best work at the Co-op than that, as I was doing.
Her condition didn’t stand out in the context of a punk night. It looked like drunken camaraderie as we propped her up. But that didn’t lessen my concern for her. It even put Mortal’s success into the background. As Gina began to babble and ramble, the trouble was immediately obvious.
‘I can’t go up there tonight. No way. I’m not going to fucking perform.’
‘All right, take it easy Gina. We’ll get you walking first.’
‘My parents are going to be here... Watching me. Oh shit. I can’t believe this. What if it goes wrong? In front of all those people. If I make any mistakes?’
