by Neil Rowland
Nutcase was the only one to be moved.
‘Find another pub to drink in,’ Gina suggested.
However, Marty’s stream of hype and expectation was beginning to affect Gina. She’s got that panicky look again.
Stan pulled on a mohair sweater, a pink one, that struck vividly against his olive skin and hacked black hair, green, red and blue tipped. ‘Don’t let the big cheese put you off. We’ll camp it up and play loud. No fancy frilly keyboards either.’
Marty battled against those clamping facial muscles. The blocks of teeth came into view, rugged and recently chipped, like Stonehenge. The would-be reassuring leer only set off complex worry lines and late night grooves.
‘No worries Marty. We wunt let yer down mate,’ Nutcase assured him.
‘Right definitely, no bullshit, this is the best blinkin little kick arse little rock band since Iggy was knee high to a fucking grass hopper. So, straight up, don’t go and let us down by throwing all your fucking toys out of the pram.’
‘Is that right now Marty?’ Urine said, impressed.
Encouraged, Marty recovered an optimistic grin and worked it around the room at us.
‘No bullshit Billy, don’t go and play like a bunch of two thumbed fucking tossers tonight.’
‘Ai, fair play now Marty bay, don’t think it goes unappreciated,’ Billy told him, whacking his cases.
Hope seemed to fill the dressing room, along with big inky palms and fingers and Gorran’s halo of candyfloss hair.
‘Cheers, Marty,’ said Billy.
Nut spat into a cup. ‘We’ll do our fuckin best.’
***
Despite this inspiring speech, I had my doubts about Mortal’s longevity. They had more cracks than in the ceilings of the Mansion. Gina and Stan’s constant sniping only paused in front of an audience. That was rarely a winning recipe for any band. Gina did her best to make peace with Snot: she offered to transcribe his songs into musical notation. After that he might consider getting copywrite. Stan’s eyes grew big at first, but after consulting his ego he turned her down.
When playing live together they merged and tensions vanished. The individuals became a group and the sound came together; as did the tunes. Magic happened.
He wouldn’t tolerate her keyboard flourishes, accusing her of trying to copy Herbie Hancock. Snot would have to get over that.
But ultimately it was Snot’s group.
***
Marty loped back to the auditorium, feeling more electrical tension than Wire, and offering some nuggets of advice at the judges’ table.
I decided to tag along with the band as they finished their preparations. Rather than sitting on Marty’s shoulder I opted for a backstage view of the gig.
The musicians picked up guitars, keyboards and drumsticks, and headed out towards the crowd. There was a lengthy nerve-jangling walk down long corridors towards the stage.
Even Stan was edgy this time, fiddling with the guitar strap and digging his fingers into his coarse, tinted hair. He knew what was at stake and had the will to win. It was as obscure as Scott 3 though.
Nutcase turned out in his worn, paint splashed, work dungarees. Nut alone was capable of filling the proscenium arch. Sadly he didn’t have access to Nulton Arts drama department’s prop cupboard any more. No more bandages and buckets of fake blood.
Bassist Steve Fenton emerged in his ordinary clothes - what you’d later describe as ‘smart casual’ - in stark contrast to the others. It was a decent fashion tip - don’t try to compete.
How was Gina going to cope? There was a charged atmosphere, following all those other bands. That infamous gig at Nulton Arts (so disastrous for Jon Whitmore) was the stuff of legend in town. Every punk in the county claimed to have been present. It was like those early gigs by the Pistols. All those lads had turned out to watch Mortal at the Battle final. They were even there to support them, wishing to hear what a Mortal debut album could potentially sound like.
‘Break a leg,’ I told Stan.
Snot cut a small, round-shouldered, phlegmatic figure, against backstage paraphernalia. He could have played a droll part in the Christmas panto, I reckon. So could we all. We were surrounded by ropes, pulleys, screens and props. Uncle Luigi’s guitar was no prop. Stan clutched the special, if vintage, instrument tight. He knew that the guitar would protect him from loneliness, fear or uncertainty in life. I gazed at my friend with some awe and, maybe, a touch of envy, for that reason.
***
As I remember, Gina didn’t lose the shakes. Her fibres were frayed by a powerful PA that pumped out Gorran’s choice of records. There was a rowdy swell of bodies, the moment Stan was spotted in the wings. A packed hall of local youth - punks, skins, Mods, bikers, ‘casuals’ and the rest - fuelled by alcohol, drugs and adrenaline - were highly stoked. Cat was green and it wasn’t her favourite colour. I found the situation alarming. And, even if I was taking notes for a Music Mail gig review, I wasn’t a performer, just a spectator.
‘You’ll be great,’ I assured her.
‘I can’t stop my hands trembling.’
‘A bit of nerves is useful. It’s natural,’ I argued.
She pulled a face of affliction. ‘Like dengue fever?’
‘It’ll wear off, when you start playing those keyboards.’
Sour Cat was getting a white-knuckle ride on the punk dragster.
‘A drink would calm me down.’
‘You’re pulling my leg.’
She pulled a pleading face. ‘Go and get one for me, will you, Bottle?’
‘No, I won’t... not anything alcoholic.’
‘Why are you so mean to me?’ she implored.
I noticed panic within the rings of grainy mascara. A mist of icy perspiration broke out over her forehead.
‘Throw water over her,’ Snot suggested, alerted.
‘Take it easy so,’ Billy assured, giving her shoulder a squeeze.
‘Don’t let her escape,’ Stan ordered.
‘They’re all on your side,’ I said.
Her beautiful new cherry coloured guitar hung heavy from her smooth shoulder.
‘Concentrate on the music,’ I suggested. ‘Put those psychos out of mind.’
The creak of stage boards was like her nerves.
‘What’s bugging her?’ Stan called.
‘Nothing,’ I replied.
‘My dad can still come and collect me,’ she suggested.
‘Too fucking late for Daddy.’
‘We all get nervous, dunt we,’ Nut said.
‘Cut out the bullshit, we’re on soon,’ Stan reminded us.
‘You don’t need me. You said so yourself,’ Gina told him.
‘She’s a disaster,’ Stan said flatly.
‘Get a feckin grip Gina,’ Billy advised. But he put his arm around her for a moment and gave her a one armed hug.
Shaking her head, stooped, ‘I don’t want to play punk rock,’ she explained. ‘I’m best on the piano.’
‘Or in A&E.’
Crowd noise increased; levels of shouting and distortion rose. How did any of them have the guts?
‘No other musician can take your place,’ I said. ‘You’re essential. Nobody has your talent, Gina.’
‘Fuck off Bottle. Save your lust for later.’
We took a step back from him.
The panicky black-ringed eyes widened at me. ‘Where’d you get such confidence in me?’ Gina asked. Her body language was shrunken.
‘Definitely you’re the heart and soul of this group.’
‘Ah come on, Bottle, you’re making me sound like Donna Summer.’
‘Why not?’
She couldn’t help sniggering at my solemnity. It was lightening her mood.
‘I just feel totally isolated up there,’ she admitted. ‘There’s just the bloody keyboard, grinning at me like Marty.’
At this moment I did something daring, or thoughtless. I gave her a hug. Not a comradely one-armed hug, as Billy had given her, but a full whole-hearted two armed hug. I wasn’t hampered by carrying anything. I’d just got a reporter’s note pad in my inside jacket pocket.
When I pulled away, ‘What’s that?’ she said.
Then we stared at each other with the question and I kissed her. I felt the soft wrinkled warmth of her mouth.
Next moment the steward (charged with giving permission for bands to go on stage) checked off his stopwatch, looked down at his clipboard, and gave the cue. The band dashed on, finally all as one, with no chance to think or waver: Gina with them.
44. The Musical Gods
In characteristic nervy style Mortal went about plugging in, roughly getting into tune, while gesturing towards the sound mixer.
I was watching stage-left; next to the Swiss Alps: a panel of painted scenery left over from The Sound of Music.
Snot fiddled and twiddled with knobs and buttons; shuffling under the lights as the volatile cauldron bubbled. He had a couple of pedals going. Gina got into tune more quickly, eyes down, strumming and adjusting. She set up her keyboard and gave it a few guilty tickles. Nutcase began to pace alarmingly, emulating the restless soul of a warrior escaped from Valhalla. Billy clambered behind his kit, shook himself like a wet dog, flexed his muscles, adjusted the stool (as if he was going to sit at the bar all night) twirled his sticks and gave a few exploratory smacks.
Satisfied with technical preparations, giving a final thumbs up to the sound guy, Snot stepped into a dusty spot. As ever he cut a diminutive, awkward, tow-headed figure, trailing a lead. He tried not to flinch, or to pay much attention to the storm of spit, beer and plastic pots, immediately launched at him; although he dodged and kept a few paces away from the edge.
‘We’re touched by your love. We haven’t seen each other for a while. Now I don’t think I fucking want to,’ he sneered, in Rotten’s pantomime dame voice. ‘What a bunch of horrible gutter snipes,’ he continued. (He knew many of these lads from the Dragon). ‘We thought you’d died of chart boredom. Now we’re gonna fucking wake you up!’
Snot’s opening chord reverberated like a circular saw through bricks and cables. It was left in the air, until Billy Urine came in on a fearsome roll. He kicked into that bass drum as if trying to knock a hole through walls. Fenton started up on bass and Gina to shadow on rhythm, holding back any flourishes - for later. Nut was pounding the boards from side to side, keeping in shadows at stage rear, a figure of torment. The giant shouter summoned his powers, waiting for Stan to give him a cue. Psyching himself up for a huge release of energy, he was getting inspiration from that mighty Mortal sound.
‘Kill Your Social Worker’ was instantly recognised by that rucking mob as a local punk favourite. Stan glided through the tune’s three-chord pattern, allowing notes to reverberate; with only a slight anxiety over Nutcase’s performance around him. Though ‘Social Worker’ was an early song, simpler to play, Sour Cat had to concentrate (she lacked rehearsal time). The old group chemistry began to flow (as I scribbled into my notepad). The band had that thunderous, unpredictable excitement. It was an incredible band. They made my neck hairs bristle like a forgotten paint brush.
Nutcase sprang into amazing pogo leaps, around the drums and keyboard. He was a huge out-of-control spring, projecting himself towards the front of the stage. Even some of the meatheads in that audience reeled back and gasped. Despite anxieties about his vocal cords, he delivered a terrifying opening high pitched wail. His singing made Kurt Cobain sound like Bing Crosby.
I’m so bored, so fuckin bored
I’m so repressed, depressed
I got out of bed to see her
Kill your social worker
Nutcase wasn’t yet a rock god but he launched in that direction.
Snot and Sour Cat maintained a fierce guitar backdrop. Anyway Stan wasn’t in the habit of moving about on stage. He wasn’t able to pogo or jump due to his leg and chest. Anyway that wasn’t his role for the group. He was quiet and concentrated, an enigmatic presence, focusing on playing. There were moments when he even turned his back on the audience. There were moments when he had to.
Stan was never convinced about Fenton’s playing. Later he’d coax Herb back into the group. He’d moan and accuse Steve of being stiff and mechanical, without personality. Fenton wasn’t a Jah Wobble or obviously flamboyant or even, properly speaking, a punk. On the other hand he could really play and adapt to musical styles. Typically he’d stand rooted to the spot, staring blankly ahead, set next to Urine. Fenton was reliable in every way; he provided a strong pulse to Snot’s erratic tunes. He reminded me of the glum one in Sparks - Ron Mael - a deadpan comical counterpoint. Except Steve’s visual style wasn’t a deliberate act.
‘Social Worker’ got a huge audience response. That A&R man from EMI should be wide awake again. When it was over the band looked at each other in euphoria and some relief. They hadn’t played much lately and it could have been terrible. Barely pausing they cued up the next song, using eye contact to count the intro. This number went roughly to the tune of The Clash’s ‘White Riot’ (a punk standard) and the lyrics were like this:
Cum, cum
Punk spunk, punk spunk,
When the kids wanna hump
Punk spunk, punk spunk,
Goin’ through the night
The kingdom cums
Sup it up, sup it up!
Punk spunk, punk spunk!
Obviously this was one of Snot’s shock songs. It came in a short savage burst. He’d penned it during a lunch break in the college refectory.
Mortal ran quickly into ‘Stalin Was a Faker’. ‘Stalin’ had a dynamic snaking guitar line, the big achievement of Stan’s bedroom practice. Snot could hit on the most amazing guitar riffs. And he got an incredibly smooth tone out of Luigi’s guitar - even with this harsh material. Snot evoked guitar heroes who we pretended to sneer at - or claim we’d never heard! It probably saved us from his big ego. On the other hand, he’d say that was the whole idea of punk.
Snot pushed a button in the Central Nervous System. You could feel the strength of Hercules in his playing. Really, it felt miraculous. Yet he struck an improbable figure on stage; like I said, he barely moved, as if it was all too easy. Gina told me this was a sign of the best musicians - the stillness and an impression of withdrawal. That’s why they’d be accused of aloofness or not caring about an audience. It was imposed on Stan by his disability and by his talent. No wonder we idolise such musicians, who inspire us so brilliantly. They don’t only make us feel good, inspired, they give us a feeling of invincibility.
He wove a tale full of darkness and blinding lights, lulls and rumbles, love and revenge, hope and fear.
That’s right, even this ‘pigeon-chested’ little bloke, Stan Snot, stooped under a mop of dyed curls, hardly bothering about the crazy crowd, and with the fickle power of the musical gods at his fingertips.
‘Stalin’ was one of my favourite Mortal Wound tracks. Roy and I had heard Stan repeating the riff over and over, while we had those broken springs up our arses watching the late movie. Repeat, repeat, start, re-start, until he got it dead right.
The lyrics were like this:
Stalin was a faker
Thought he was a dictator
Got all the lads he hated
Into the snowy wastes of Russia
Twiddled his moustaches
Giving out a thousand lashes
That Stalin was a faker
Kept all his people silent
Playing the old tyrant
Everyone knew old Stalin
Was nothing but a da
rlin’
Cos Stalin was a faker
On the stage of history
Comin’ on the big dictator
To all the kids in Russia
Sent away his dissidents
The writers and the kulaks
To Siberian gulags
Even Solgynitzen
Wasn’t makin’ no sense
Cos everyone knew Stalin
Was nothin’ but the darlin’
Cos Stalin was a faker
Came on the big dictator
Posed as a communist
For all the undertakers
He was the old twister
All the dirty work and firin’
Cos Stalin was just a darlin’
Gina put in her first keyboard figure, during the middle eight. She vamped it up for a few bars, having a monsters’ ball. From time to time she checked Snot’s reaction. Fortunately he chose to keep to himself. He was no fool, he realised how good she sounded and how it came over. She admitted to me that she was influenced by Nat Cole, Hank Jones, Herbie Hancock and emulated Diana Krall. Snot would rather have a fit than copy them. But it didn’t matter, because it sounded great.
Meanwhile I checked the judges’ table and she was definitely impressing. In fact she was knocking them out like King Daddy. As usual she gave Mortal another dimension. All those performance demons had run away through her fingers. Stage fright felt about as real as sea sickness. I hoped her parents were watching this, from the upper tier. There was a mass of happy punters out there. Mortal were so brilliant that night, even with the danger of missiles. Arguably it was an age of missiles, as the superpowers had hundreds of them pointing at our heads.
With barely a breath or adjustment, Mortal went into their last song. Jez Starry had to make his mind up. There was that recording contract and a major tour to hand over. After all this had driven the local music scene crazy for months on end, like a gold rush.
Billy marked the opening with a snare sound. Steve followed dependably on bass. Stan came tagged in for the next bar, cutting a swathe on his Uncle Luigi’s guitar. Your eye went roving for the lead guitar, from the first notes. Gina started on rhythm before switching back to keyboards, even as Stan gave her a dirty look.
