by Neil Rowland
‘That’s your critical opinion?’ he put to me.
‘Yeah. And the judges didn’t even place you.’
‘I expected fuck all from them,’ he argued, twanging strings and squeezing the neck of his instrument. ‘That’s what you expect from the establishment. Then you’re not disappointed... are you?’
‘Mortal were awesome tonight. Don’t tell me different.’
Nutcase was slumped into the corner opposite. Despite a regular weekly pay packet and the arrival of little Nut, he was looking morose. The giant punk cast a thousand yard stare; his Mohican was crestfallen (after the glue had melted). He was wringing those massive hands and cursing musical destiny.
‘Those Amyl Exciters lads’re good lookin’ fuckers. Like fuckin male models,’ he remarked. ‘In a fuckin toothpaste advert or somefin. We cou’n’t compete.’
There was no risk of Nutcase being cast in a toothpaste ad. He’d atonal features.
Like a snare drum Billy was trying to cheer things up. ‘C’mon bays, why the long faces so? It wuz nuffin but a little set-back for us. So lads, there it is. This band’s got a lot more feckin life in it yet. And we’d better sta-art thinkin ahead about our next feckin gig.’
‘We’ve seen the sick face of the fucking pop future,’ Snot argued, referring to the winners.
Nutcase looked over to him. ‘What’s that, Stan mate? What d’ya mean?’
‘Music’s coming out of a fucking aerosol can in future,’ Snot argued.
‘Feckin nobs!’ Billy agreed.
‘But they could really play those keyboards,’ Gina unwisely added.
‘Nice fuckin air cuts,’ added Nut.
‘Maybe they want another fucking keyboardist,’ Snot told her.
She straightened up. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘You only read fucking music, or what?’
‘Don’t pay any attention,’ I advised. ‘He’s just temporarily bitter.’
‘The Exciters’ songs were interesting,’ Cat persisted.
‘Mindless and superficial lyrics,’ disagreed Nulton’s celebrity rock columnist.
She wouldn’t be upstaged by a non-musician like me. ‘No, I reckon there’s a lot of irony in them.’
‘Fucking ironing!’ Snot cut back.
‘They won, dint they?’ Nutcase agreed, rubbing the shaved sides of his head.
‘This isn’t the time to be fair,’ I argued.
‘I an’t been so down in me fuckin life,’ Nut admitted.
‘Ah, come on Nut, mate. Who gives a flying V?’ Snot told him.
‘Oh now, come on bays, we’ll get over this, so we shall.’
‘Mortal’s the best group,’ I insisted.
‘Anyway we scared the shit out of that bloke... what was his fucking name?’ Stan said. ‘Fucking Starry?’
‘I dunt fink e wanted another punk band,’ Nutcase argued.
‘We had too much attitude,’ Gina said.
‘The sound was ferocious,’ I added.
‘Yeah.’
‘Wanker.’
‘Nob.’
***
Snot had an acute ear for music. And he picked up a fresh note between Cat and me too. It wasn’t only because I had to wipe her black lipstick off my cheek.
It had an instant cooling effect on our friendship. For a while our level of personal warmth was back to pre-punk levels. The plastic armies of Austro-Hungary began to move again on the Russian Imperial forces. Despite his hump and other physical problems, Snot had a way with the girls. Coming second was not familiar to him in any part of life; even if, off stage, Gina and he were frequently out of tune. And his parents had spoilt him savagely, so he was used to getting what he wanted. Snot had lost out with Sour Cat and in the Battle too; so the magic guitar was much easier to handle; and it belonged exclusively to him.
Gina agreed to go to see the Stranglers and the Damned in London with me. It had to be a date, or what else could you call it? All next week I was afraid she’d change her mind. I expected to get something negative over the grapevine. Perhaps she only agreed because of that bump to the head. She wanted to see The Jam with me the following week, there had to be something wrong with her mind. Of course it wouldn’t last, but we did go out together a few times - we got some brilliant music in and had some great experiences.
That evening I was anxious that Gina would spot me as a nerd or a freak. For a long time I was suffering my own version of stage fright - off-stage fright. This terror glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth like loft insulation.
As for Snot, I didn’t have much sympathy. He was constantly sniping at her, like John Lydon stuck in a lift with a tabloid journalist. He had more girls in awe than you could fit into a Pepsi commercial. So what was his big problem?
***
Not being stone hearted I agreed to buy Cat a drink. She deserved a relaxing tipple after that ordeal. So we found our way to the backstage artists’ bar. Being eagerly anticipated by Nulton rockers the after-gig party was in full swing.
We made our way through the crush: musicians, entourages, friends, family, blaggers and liggers. I’d spotted Marty Gorran in his natural habitat. Phoenix was there, in a more subdued mood, pulling on a consolation Havana. He was less than impressed with that limey judging panel. Betsy and her Screamers were relaxed as ever - call it American optimism, or just a sense of proportion.
Les wasn’t vindictive enough to demand Marty’s car. The S&M chief was able pay back the loan in his own time. Not only were they good mates really but that Sunbeam was way too small for any Texan music magnate.
Amyl Exciters, we learnt, were not present. Jez ‘Units’ Starry had already whisked them away to the Flamingo for a celebration lig with crates of pink champagne ordered in. The freshly signed band were also being wined and dined courtesy of Dave Crock, as the detail of their recording contract was explained.
A bit later a flushed Roy dropped by with Cindy Gorran. ‘Away Bottle comrade, we sold oo-ver two hun’red copies of the mag,’ he told me.
‘Good going,’ I replied.
‘Ai, the income’ll pay for a second edition, marra, if you’re int’rested.’
I thought about the idea. ‘I’m in favour, if you reckon we’ll find another six local bands to interview.’
‘We’ll do our best, Bottle man. All right, our Gina?’
‘How’s the revolution?’
‘Ai, I’m in decent fettle at the moo-ment mind, thanks very much. So how are you, comrade?’
‘Fine fettle as well, thank you Roy,’ she agreed.
‘Congrat-u-lations marra, on that storming gig.’
‘So you watched the band play? It was great, wasn’t it? I really enjoyed it too.’
‘That’s good to he-ar, comrade, cos you played great tonight mind. There’s no doot Gina man, Mortal’s the best group by miles. What were those judges thinkin’ of like? Don’t worry marra, I’ve got them deaf bas’tads down in my little bo-ok,’ Smithy pledged.
‘I reckon they lost their critical faculties,’ I added. They’d drunk enough beer to bring down a Led Zeppelin.
‘We’re not a big record company type of band,’ Cat reflected.
‘Away man, you’re too fuckin good for those exploit-ative bas’tads.’
‘That’s what I told the others. But they’ll all down hearted over it,’ she shrugged.
‘Away man, it’s those fucking multi-national corp’rations!’ Smithy rattled.
‘We’ve got to live with them... If we want to make music,’ Gina was saying.
‘After the revolution we’ll be makin’ our ooh-n music, marra,’ Roy explained. ‘Ai, that’s right, not just to make fat profits... for the ruling class mind. Without them bas’tads pullin’ all the strings, comrades. Every
body’ll get their fair chance mind,’ he promised - brown eyes gleamed behind thick smudgy panes.
‘Thanks for supporting us,’ Gina said.
‘Ai man, that Starry blork’ll be one of the first lined up against the fucking wall, marra,’ he promised, sticking the inhaler back into his mouth.
‘That’s turning into a long bloody wall,’ I noticed: though the image of Starry against it was very appealing.
‘Didn’t they already build that wall?’ Gina commented.
‘Anyways marra, what are you two drinkin’?’ Roy asked - ever generous.
The brewers and distillers were tolerable capitalist exploiters.
I turned down the offer of another pint. Two was my limit. As I mentioned, I was just waiting for the skinny Latte to arrive. Of course it took another twenty years - except in those family operated Italian cafes in London.
‘Changing the subject, lads. Where the hell’s Paulie got to?’ I wondered.
‘Ai, don’t even ask, comrade.’
‘No? Well, I saw him slipping off... after Kittens were placed third.’
‘Better than us,’ Gina said. ‘What’s he complaining about?’
The Smith exhaled air of frustration. ‘Ai man, but comin’ third’s not good enough for Welling’on, mind.’
‘What’s going on with that lad?’ I bemoaned.
‘Is Paulie all right? Do you think?’ Gina asked.
Roy’s whole physiognomy expressed disgust and weariness. ‘Away man, the daft bugger’s left his jab at the news-peeper this week. He’s wanted to take his bongos to London. Wants to try his luck doon in the smurk,’ Roy informed us, with a tremble of amazement and dread.
‘Right, so he’s moving out of the mansion?’
‘Ai man, that’s it now, cos he met these lads doon at the Electric Ballroom last week. Startin’ their own band and he told ‘em how he’s a talented musician... and a lot of other bullshit. Now these lads believe him mind, and they want him to be their singer and play his bongos for ‘em, marra!’ Roy explained, amazed and appalled.
‘That’s the end of their group,’ Gina predicted.
‘Paulie’s trying to reinvent himself... yet again,’ I said.
‘No more Viscous Kittens either.’
‘Away Gina man, d’you think that lad’s got any int’rest in music now? D’you think Paulie’ll want to go and rehearse with ‘em every week? Get down to the studio on time, comrade? Noooh! Away man, he’s useless, a total buffoon!’ Roy objected, struggling to breathe. Any hilarity over Wellington’s antics had evaporated.
‘What’s Paulie going to work in London?’ Gina considered.
‘Away, I doon’t have the fain’est idea, comrade. And at this moment, marra, I doont care!’ he insisted.
‘Can he look after himself?’ I wondered.
The SWP man was agitated. ‘Away man, your guess’s as good as mine. I don’t know what he’d told those lads down in London mind. They prob’ly think he’s Ravi Shankar like,’ Roy speculated, boggling behind the glasses.
‘Paulie’s off on his own planet,’ Cat said.
‘Ai man, he’s fooked up this one now, hasn’t he!’
‘It’s much safer for the Nulton music scene.’
‘Away Bottle man, I can’t be that lad’s mother all the tame! See yer back at the mansion then, marra. I’ll go and find our Cindy again, cos I offered to walk her hoom. Ai, it’s gettin’ dark like, and those fucking fascists are lurkin’ aboot.’
At which he zipped up his parker, threw a proletarian knapsack over a shoulder and dashed off on his springy toes. Chronic asthma never stopped him moving quickly, at big demos or on other occasions.
‘Paulie did make a bit of an arse of himself,’ Gina mused, sipping her vodka and orange.
‘That wouldn’t bother him none.’
‘All the same, Bottle, I feel sorry for him. Don’t you?’
‘I’m worried for him... just going off... to London like that. What the hell’s he gonna do there. Apart from bashing his bloody bongos.’
‘He’s a bit helpless and lost that boy,’ Gina mused.
I gave her a wary look.
‘Almost too nice and innocent for this world, don’t you think?’
Probably I had an expression of fear and disgust on my mug.
‘What was he trying to pull in that bath robe?’
I could only shrug.
‘Fucking Nora, a bath robe.’
‘Yeah.’
47. Jacky la Costa Introduces
‘The big record companies are sick of punk now,’ Gina was arguing. Her head was clearing amazingly quickly.
‘Depends on the band,’ I suggested: propping an elbow against the wall, suddenly more self-confident, in a man-of-the-world posture. ‘They wouldn’t be sick of Mortal. If they heard you tonight, they’d snap you up.’
Cat gave a startled look. ‘Snap us up? Right. They signed a few punk bands. Flavour of the month. They’re afraid of missing something. Doesn’t mean they like punk.’
‘You got to be realistic,’ I said.
‘Realistic? That’s for when you’re dead,’ she insisted.
‘They’re only in it for the profit. Like Roy said. What does he expect?’
‘They’ll be glad when this punk movement ends. So they can get back to blokes with blonde perms, singing about the fucking chicks.’
‘I’m not changing my hair style. Not yet,’ I assured her.
Cat grinned and touched it. She seemed to approve. ‘We’d better enjoy this scene... while it’s going on... cos people will talk about it years ahead. They’ll be looking back. But this isn’t nostalgia. It’s happening.’
‘Punk is necessary though, isn’t it. A type of re-start for rock music and youth culture,’ I argued.
‘Yeah, right, we’re got to enjoy this while it’s going on. Maybe punk’s just a moment,’ she argued. ‘Perhaps that moment has already gone.’
‘That mad moment,’ I said, sounding knowledgeable, milking my music critic celebrity. It seemed to work a bit of magic.
While Gina and I gassed about the future of rock ‘n’ roll, staring into the mirrorball, I became conscious - at the edge of my vision - of a bloke ogling her. This character was standing about in a conflicted detached way. He was brooding around one of the bars, staring at Cat twitchily, as if smoke was bothering him. Finally he made his move across the ‘artists bar’ red carpet. Just one evening with Gina - I thought - making a good impression with my music criticism and already the bloody romantic rivals come shoving me aside. Probably she provoked a lot of blokes, with her natural wit, talent and beauty. It was highly likely. So if - by some miracle - we went out with each other, I’d better get used to that - buy myself a crash helmet and knuckleduster. We’d both land up in the General next time, unfortunately in single beds.
‘Music and business doesn’t always mix well,’ Cat continued to riff - in her truthful yet confused way. She was always more coherent musically.
‘Yeah, could be. Just a necessary marriage.’ Unfortunate bed fellows, you could say.
‘That’s why they call our music the avant-garde.’
Any talk about the avant-garde was throwing me, as I was just catching up with Iggy, Devo and Patti Smith.
‘Hey, how are you guys?’ this bloke interrupted.
Sour Cat gazed sideways - as if cigarette smoke was beginning to bother her as well. She was still more interested in her musical argument. In fact she decided to continue with it.
‘Is it Gina Watson?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Jacky la Costa,’ the bloke said.
‘Yeah? So? If you didn’t notice, we were talking.’
‘Sure, but...’
La Costa was forty
something years old. He resembled a cross between Burt Reynolds and Roy Orbison. He didn’t allow an insinuating grin to drop from his older man’s confident, dark walnut face.
‘What you want? You saying you know me?’
‘It’s Jacky la Costa.’
‘What’s up?’
Jacky had a very rock ‘n’ roll slicked-back hair style, whisky brown eyes, peppery stubble and a penchant for a ‘man in black’ clothing style. The quiff wasn’t a rug either, like Burt’s or Roy’s, although it was a bottled shade of raven black. His brand of handsome, charming self-assurance, put me on my guard. This could be just my luck.
‘Sour Cat, right?’
She darted looks about the room, as if it could be someone else. Maybe she was just afraid her father was present (though her teetotal parents had gone home, delighted at her confident performance). She returned her gaze but refused to shake his hand. Jacky’s tough tanned fingers poked out from a shirt cuff, broad and stiff as a cereal box. A few showy rocks knobbled his fingers too.
‘Oh, sure, okay...’
‘So am I expected to recognise you, or what?’ she wondered. She was trying to place him; some tribute to Alvin Stardust? Kris Kristofferson?
‘Sure, I’m feelin’ your hook,’ he told her strangely.
‘What do you want?’
‘It’s no skin off my ass. But I’m Jacky la Costa, just the same, owner of a stable of leading independent record labels. Yeah, well, you might have read about me in the music papers every week,’ Jacky suggested. ‘Surely, not to worry Gina... Cos I’ve got a big roster of labels. The biggest is Dick Discs.’
Miss Cat finally got the reference. ‘Oh yeah, I’ve definitely read about you in the music papers. I’d never expect to bump into you here.’
‘There’s a Battle of the Bands taking place. Didn’t you hear?’ he smirked.
‘Something,’ she replied.
‘On a big music night like this,’ I added.
‘Surely, man. So you don’t mind... if I join you guys?’
‘Did you bring some carry outs,’ she joked.
La Costa inserted his broad shoulders between Sour Cat and me.
‘This is my mate, Paul Bottle. He edits a fanzine. It was on sale tonight. Ob-scene.’
