Punk Story

by Neil Rowland

  After an intro, quite long for a punk group, Nutcase threw himself into the first verse. He swiped the microphone as if he’d got Mick Dove around the throat.

  Toast the rich, rich

  They’ve got the power

  They’ve got the poor

  An’ they want more.

  So toast the rich, rich

  Enjoyin’ their affluence

  Using their influence

  They got thru the squeeze

  Leading a life of leisure

  Toast the rich, rich

  They know how to use yer

  They only wanna please yer

  Manipulate and feed yer

  Toast the rich, rich

  They got ‘emselves the fun

  Villas in the sun

  So never mind the scum!

  Snot’s political ideas were a form of nihilism. Those nights of discussion, back at the mansion with The Smith and his SWP mates, clearly had some influence.

  Suddenly, after pogo-ing ferociously, Nutcase put a boot through the stage boards. What happened? One moment he was springing about, and then the next he vanished beneath. There could hardly have been more anarchy and uproar in that hall, yet somehow the level went up. Only the tip of his green Mohican was showing above ground (or over the surface of the floorboards). It didn’t move for a worryingly long time. Like a little privet hedge.

  Meanwhile, even as their singer was underground, Mortal had the presence of mind to keep playing. Apparently, we realised afterwards, he’d gone down a faulty old ‘trap door’. This device hadn’t been utilised since a 1971 production of Peter Pan.

  Eventually worry (and curiosity) got the better of the musicians. Stan and Gina needed to shuffle over to see where he had gone. Notably they didn’t stop playing and singing, because they were determined to reach a finale. Hopefully the judges would think it was part of the act. There was always a chance that Nut would return, after recovering his senses.

  Sure enough, after barely two dropped verses, Nutcase launched a comeback. Two huge hands emerged from the hole, followed by beefy forearms and elbows, after suffering Captain Hook treatment. Later we realised that Nut had been concussed. He couldn’t remember much of the incident. His head felt worse than interrupted sleep with Little Nut.

  There was a huge cheer, as the Mortal vocalist clambered back to his boots. Simply giving his face a rough rub, Nut was back jumping and launched into the song. Maybe some thought it was all part of the show, as when Mick had burst into flame, recreating the fall of the Third Reich.

  Nutcase fired off the final verses:

  Toast the rich, rich

  They just help each other

  They recognise one another

  Deceive n smile n flatter

  So toast the rich, rich

  They got the wealth

  They got the health

  We’re just the filth!

  Roaring to the end, Nutcase didn’t seem to notice that the old trapdoor still gaped. He threw himself into a perilous jig, and we half expected him to plunge again. Everybody held their breath, and maybe that was his idea. Luckily for Sandra and their young family there were no more accidents. Come Monday morning he’d be back plastering and painting ceilings.

  So Mortal Wound, my favourite local band of all time, soared to a climax. The lighting rig had convulsions: spotlights crisscrossed into the hall, as if searching for bombers. The lighting technicians claimed that the system had just over-heated. We didn’t believe that. Snot apparently floated a few feet into the air, as he played the final charmed notes.

  After their set Mortal stood together at stage edge, very happy, enjoying a wildly enthusiastic audience response, as well as continuing to avoid projectiles.

  To my mind it was nothing short of a triumph.

  45. The Prize Ceremony

  Mortal’s set had concluded the entire Battle of the Bands contest. After Snot’s final searing chord the judges had to put their heads together (in every possible sense). This was their vital time to agree on final scores and decide overall positions for the acts. The influential judges were Jez Starry, Keith from the keyboard shop and Morton Treble. And there were three rockers besides them, tanked up by then and struggling to kick their brains into gear.

  During this waiting period, the local music talent were mixing on stage as edgily as bunches of poodles at Crufts.

  After an interminable delay - which had emptied another brewery - judges agreed. Each group naturally thought it was the best since Presley had dyed his hair black, or a delta bluesman found a socket. As I took more notes I observed the array of big egos on display. There was more smugness there than dry ice at a Led Zep show. Egos inflated to the extent of ‘Kiss Live’ and artistic pretensions to the proportions of Pink Floyd’s pig over Battersea power station. In fact they were almost as insufferable as a music journalist.

  So we had the entire local punk glitterati of 1977 lined up in expectation. Betsy Dandie, Paulie, Snot, Anna-kissed, Herb, Bryan and Matty from Amyl Exciters, Rob and Spike from Turbo, Penny Tits from Big Tits and all the others. Only Mick Dove from Steel Dildo wasn’t present because, obviously, he was wrapped up in bandages at the hospital.

  Paulie Wellington was looking very happy and chummy, being most convinced about his victory. He was born for stardom and a centre-spread semi-nude photo-shoot for Smash Hits. Those staple marks along the navel were just a matter of time. Though, admittedly, he was still hanging around in his bathrobe.

  In addition to a record deal, with a support slot on a major band tour, there were runners up prizes of equipment and recording time, even record tokens (courtesy of Morton Treble).

  A short delay ensued, while the leader of the council made his way gradually on stage to join the artists. He was tasked with heading up and declaring the judges’ verdict.

  Councillor Hughie Fairbright was greeted by ironic applause, cat calls and hooting. Offended by this welcome the councillor darted stern looks, as he adjusted himself and the microphone. On the other hand, this wasn’t the era of love and peace.

  In a jiffy Jez Starry joined him, looking impossibly cool, as well as powerful and detached. Fairbright was acting in his capacity as chair of the sub-committee (b) of the committee of entertainment and youth - obviously ‘b’ stood for bollocks. Fairbright looked a lot like Eric Morecombe, except with a bit more hair and a total lack of warmth or humour. In fact Fairbright was the biggest ‘straight man’ to ever appear on that stage.

  Of course the biggest laugh was really on Nulton rate payers.

  There was a jarring visual contrast between the councillor and Jez Starry. Fairbright in his baggy brown suit like a public park exhibitionist: Starry in rock star designer gear - the tight black jeans and silky shirt. He was just back from a Caribbean recording session, where he was drinking mineral water with Jagger on a terrace. The councillor was Methodist teetotal.

  Politicians looked like politicians in those days. Hughie Fairbright’s prepared speech was grotesquely out of sync. The politicians had organised a well-meaning musical talent contest. But it had unwittingly tapped into the exploding punk scene. From their point of view, the evening had been as catastrophic as if the cub scouts had turned into the Khmer Rouge. The event would definitely get into the Chronicle for weeks. Paulie intended to write a gig review (for posterity) assuming he won as expected. Belly and Slapper were shrewd enough to send a more hardnosed reporter, to cover any potential crime and politics angle. Where did you start? Only the Crocks were safe, because if any negative stories appeared (about them or their businesses) they’d threaten to withdraw advertising.

  ‘Is this microphone working properly? Can you all hear me, all you boys and girls out there?’ Fairbright began. ‘All right then. Good evening boys and girls,’ he read from notes and a prompt sh
eet. ‘Now then, I’m sure you’re as eager as I am... to join me in commending tonight’s demonstration of young musical...hum, er...talent. Yes, well. I’m very confident that you will join me in praising these young musicians... here in Nulton and Duncehead and all the villages adjoining,’ he urged, to a wall of boorish jeers, booing and hilarity.

  Brazening it out, Fairbright looked up and down from his papers. There was a seething mass of drunken, doped up, dazed and sweaty kids before him: like the grandchildren from hell. There was not a single cap and toggle in the place, as far as he could recall. No military uniforms, only the baffling uniforms of competing youth cultures. How did he agree to drop into this bear pit?

  ‘Equally,’ he persisted. ‘I invite you, boys and girls, to condemn... yes, to utterly condemn the unsavoury exhibitions of foul language and physical violence that has been witnessed in this ‘all tonight... not to talk about lewdly provocative behaviour... yes, indeed... that has been perpetrated by some young musicians performing here this evening.’

  There was a crescendo.

  Fairbright tried to moisten his lips; blinked out into dazzling lights. He tossed his shiny comb over and gave his paper a shake. Exploiting amplification he overrode the crowd’s aggressive mockery.

  ‘My fellow honourable councillors and myself have no doubt... no doubt whatsoever, I might stress... that the vast majority of young musicians have no sympathy for such yobbish antics... or for revolting displays of public nudity and confrontational behaviour,’ he argued, checking off his audience, and loosening his jacket around the shoulders.

  ‘I can inform you... I can inform you all now... Yes, I heard what you said.! I fully intend to write to the Chief Inspector to apologise for your behaviour here tonight... on behalf of the silent majority here tonight... And if anybody still at school or college I’ll be sending a letter to your teachers,’ he shouted at them, pointing out into the ruckus. ‘And to apologise for all the foul and obscene behaviour, during this pop competition, which has so disgraced Nulton and Duncehead...and which so offended our Lord Mayor and his good lady wife... so they had no other options but to leave in their ceremonial car.

  ‘We’re not here to judge, but we didn’t come for that!’ he declared.

  The turn of phrase was not appreciated. Fortunately for Fairbright most kids were too hammered. They were easy pickings for Crock Security.

  ‘That’s right, you lads don’t like to hear the truth, do you! I’m certain that Mr Starry ‘ere, up from the world famous EMI records in London... would endorse my strong words and back me up to ‘ilt. There you are, you got it from the horse’s mouth, of a music professional. Some of you lads think you’re clever don’t you. Let me tell you, you’ve making fools of yourselves. That’s right... Any monkey with the wind up can shout foul language at decent people. Let me remind you, I’m an elected public official,’ Hughie insisted.

  In that awry neck tie, old suit and scuffed brown suede shoes, he was never going to set any fashion trends.

  There was an exchange of views between him and Starry.

  ‘Right then, so d’you want to hear the talent contest results or don’t you? You wouldn’t see such disgraceful antics from Hank Marvin and the Shadows. I can tell you they was one of the great rock and roll bands.’ On this matter Snot and I could agree with him. ‘What do you lot know about good music any roads? You can cut it out now! Or we’ll get the police in. I don’t care about any scandal. We’ll have to deal with it. Now, I’m confident that our music executive, Mr Starry ‘ere, would back me up on that point.’

  Jez Starry shrugged and grinned, even though Hank was still paying for half his salary.

  ‘If you ‘aven’t heard the Shadows, then you ‘aven’t heard classic guitar rock,’ Fairbright argued. At this moment he was forced to dodge a flying pint pot - which he did with expertise. It went sailing past his head into the alpine backdrop. German lager was streaming down the side of a mountain. You hardly noticed him sway. So smoothly did his head twitch to the side. Only a politician with years of experience on the hustings could have pulled that one off.

  Fairbright was frisking himself. ‘Now, here’s what you’ve all been waiting for... Yes, here they are. I’m looking for the results,’ he stated. He moistened and worked his mouth. The next moment Starry had placed a gold envelope into his sweaty hands. The councillor began the process of opening this envelope, as if it had been lost in the post from Alaska. ‘All right then, here we go, boys and girls... Just bear with me a moment. Who licked this blasted envelope?

  ‘And the winner is!’

  Starry leant across to stop him and to whisper instructions.

  ‘I see... I see... I beg your pardons... So where is it.? What’s this? In third place.? In third place... and winning themselves a block of ten sessions at Troy Crock Sound Recordings Studios, here in Nulton.

  ‘It’s Viscous Kittens!’

  Even from the audience I could lip-read Paulie. ‘Phew, bloody dodgy. Third?! What’s going on there, mate? That’s a really dodgy decision.’

  ‘Well done, boys and girls... well played!’ Hughie shook the hands of the Kittens and Paulie’s groupies in turn. Except that Paulie decided not to come forward to pick up. The stray cat immediately slipped off into the wings, in numb disbelief and disappointment. I just saw the whip of his cinch. Where next for him? We had to wonder.

  ‘Now, let me arrange this other bit of paper here. Who was responsible for organising this envelope?’ Fairbright fiercely challenged.

  ‘Second place. Betsy Dandie and the Creamers!’

  There needed to be a further intervention from Starry.

  ‘Screamers. Sorry boys and girls, my mistake. Well, congratulations young lady. Well done. Screamers. Well I never. I really enjoyed that. First class rock and roll music. Just like mother used to make,’ Fairbright praised, as Betsy and the band bounced forward.

  ‘In second place you win vouchers worth up to a thousand pounds from Troy Crock Mail Order Music Services. Marvellous. And a ten pound record token from the Record Shack. Many congratulations, love.’

  Betsy smiled widely, stoned by then, risking the edge of the stage. ‘Cheers everyone!’ she called out in her best British, holding up a punch of victory. Nevertheless Les Phoenix would be gutted. Vic the chauffeur had emptied the tank of his Cadillac. American rock stars and American rock impresarios just didn’t come second. They’d prove it by phoning up Bonnie Tyler and asking her to do backing vocals on their debut album.

  ‘Pay attention Mr Starry... hold this for me, will you.? Much obliged to you, sir. Now, it gives me great pleasure to be present here tonight... at the Nulton Civil ‘All... on behalf of... of the sub-committee, bee, of the committee of entertainment and youth... as well as the steering group and as leader of the council and the majority group... and his Honour the Mayor and his good lady wife... to announce the winner of the first ever... Nulton Battle of the Bands competition. So here we go then.

  ‘Right, this is it, and... just the ticket.’ Fairbright turned the bit of paper from side to side, even upside down, in search of the pertinent information.

  ‘Much obliged to you again, Mr Starry.’

  He nudged Eric Morecombe spectacles back up his sweaty nose.

  ‘I’ve got it. So the champions of the first Nulton Battle of the Bands contest... winning themselves a recording contract with EMI Records... Is that right, Mr Starry? So long as their material is strong enough... The winner of the contest is:

  ‘Amyl Exciters!’ the councillor declared.

  Finally the leader of the council allowed himself a smile of relief.

  Four toothy peroxide clones in jumpsuits (I was nothing but a balanced critic) gathered their prize from a beaming Jez Starry.

  A large section of the crowd immediately began to chant Mortal’s name in protest.

  ‘
Congratulations guys!’ Starry praised. He was giving them a sample copy of a record contract, as well as a new winner’s cup. What the fuck happened to that cup? ‘See you guys at Abbey Road!’ Starry called into the mic. with a big grin.

  I couldn’t avoid the dejected looks of Mortal Wound. Stan was trying not to give anything away. I had no trouble reading his coded body language and private thoughts. I didn’t have to be Jacques Derrida.

  ‘Thanks again Mr Starry. Come back next year will you! I hope you can agree with me... that, on balance, this inaugural contest has been a marvellous success story,’ Fairbright argued.

  There was nobody better for brazening it out.

  Of course there was a hell of a scandal in the media. There never was a second official Battle of the Band competition. To be honest, we didn’t need one because it couldn’t be bettered.

  ‘Have a safe trip home everybody,’ Fairbright urged.

  46. Paulie Moves His Bongos to London

  So that was the end of the Battle; all the hype, rivalry and excitement of that summer were scattered and lost. There was a massive feeling of anti-climax for the musicians and it was a complete downer. There were more ruined egos in that room than smashed bottles at a Greek wedding (Stan’s cousin’s). Fortunately they had an after gig party to look forward to.

  Mortal Wound wasn’t in much better shape, as I put my face around their dressing room door. Stan was hunched away experimenting with Luigi’s guitar; turned in on himself.

  ‘Why the fuck should I be disappointed?’ he said, snapping at me.

  ‘Mortal’re the punk band with a reputation around here. You’re local favourite,’ I argued.

  He ignored me.

  I was not deterred in my enthusiastic backing. ‘Everybody wanted you to win. You played a cracking set.’

  ‘It’s just another gig for us, Bottle.’

  ‘You were a shoe-in, Stan.’