Record Play Pause

by Stephen Morris

  In the office where I bided my time and skived the day away were several girls. Most of the time, they outnumbered men five to two.

  I got on with them very well; and I got on with their sisters pretty well too. They were very nice.

  And there it is, that 1970s northern man’s patronising arrogance. It may seem alien and wrong in the twenty-first-century LED light, but bathed in the fluorescent strip light over my tray of neglected filing, it was ubiquitous and inescapable: hot-blooded young chaps didn’t want Linda from next door but one. They wanted Babs or Dee Dee from Pan’s People.

  ‘Phoar,’ as Reg Varney of On the Buses might have said at the time. ‘Look at the . . . on that one!’

  Women in the seventies – an allegedly liberated age of equality, or so we thought at the time – were by and large treated appallingly badly. Mostly by men who thought they were following in the footsteps of their fathers, so where was the harm in a little good-natured misogyny? As the Nuremberg defence goes . . .

  Get a bunch of high-spirited lads together, maybe in a rock band or something, send them off on the road and left to their own devices, and who knows what might happen? Well, I think you can predict the answer to that one easily enough.

  If you were steadfast in the avoidance of the ‘proper job’ that your mother and father wished upon you, then there was a pretty good chance that ‘nice girls’ would not be the thing that you were after.

  ‘Tales of Rock-and-Roll Mayhem and Sexual Hi-Jinks’ were pretty high on the list of incentives to become a rock star, probably higher up on the list than ‘untold riches’ and more often than not just as imaginary.

  It’s a glamorous business.

  One of the great things about punk was that women could break out of the stereotypes that showbiz had them typecast for. Gaye Advert, Siousxie and Debbie Harry weren’t typical chanteuses, the Slits were not the Three Degrees. There were the Raincoats, Tina Weymouth, Poly Styrene, Joan Jett, Patti Smith. The thing that went under the umbrella of ‘punk’ was nothing if not a great leveller, an equaliser and something that definitely broke down the preconception of what role a woman in a group might have.

  At T. J.’s rehearsal mill, women, though, were still a rarity. Hence the interest in the arrival of the Inadequates. Later, when we moved up in the world and got the bigger room – the one that’s in the photographs and the ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ video – we found ourselves neighbours with Manicured Noise (mentioned by Siouxsie in a couple of interviews, so interesting); the all-girl rhythm section certainly appealed to some.

  The Inadequates protesting at the lack of music venues in Macclesfield. Nobody listened

  Funny that, looking at this photo, nobody looks overtly like a ‘punk rocker’ but that was how it was. The only signifier of affiliation was the collection of badges and the odd safety pin or dog collar. The tartan bondage trousers and spiky Mohicans were rarely to be seen in the early days of north-west DIY bands. It was only later, with the second wave of ‘oi’ punk bands such the Exploited and the Angelic Upstarts, that we really began to see the stereotypical uniform and wearing of dyed and spiked-up hair, which now features on holiday postcards of King’s Road punks. As jolly old London as jellied eels or the Changing of the fucking Guard.

  PART 3:

  TOMORROW’S WORLD

  Roll up, roll up to the Stiff Test/Chiswick Challenge, 14 April 1978.

  Before shows such as The X Factor, The Voice, Wherever’s Got Talent and God knows what else passes for twenty-first-century gladiatorial light entertainment, there was Opportunity Knocks, a show that, unlikely as it seems, had been running since 1949.

  Opportunity Knocks was fronted by the ever-so-slightly weird but more-than-slightly faux-sincere and staunchly Thatcherite Canadian expat, Hughie Green. It did exactly the same thing as today’s search-for-a-star reality pap. Aspiring stars were given the chance to do their act before a TV audience who would pass judgement by applause volume, before the viewing public got their say with an unriggable postal vote. The show ceased in 1978, and by then it already had a rival in the form of New Faces, which had tarted up the format for the seventies audience with the inclusion of a panel of four celebrity judges. The idea really wasn’t that new – the search for raw and cheap talent to exploit had long been a part of the showbiz food chain. A tradition ripe for lampooning and sending up.

  The Stiff/Chiswick talent show was a new wave homage or piss-take of this variety genre. It would tour the UK, visiting musical hotspot cities. Local bands turned up and did their set and the ‘best’ artistes would be given the opportunity to record for either Stiff or Chiswick – it was unclear as to which. What was also unclear was the method of judging who the winner might be. Hughie Green used a clapometer but I doubt that would have been much help here. I guess the assumption was that some representative of that branch of the record companies’ A & R department would do the job – it was theoretically right up their street, what they were bred for: identifying talent.

  You would have thought that going off our previous brush with the talent show back in Little Hulton, we would have learned our lesson and avoided anything featuring the word ‘talent’ in its title. In justification, I guess that there was an ironic use of the word here. That there would be no magic acts, ventriloquists or lovely lady singers seeking approval from Stiff or Chiswick was guaranteed. No, definitely no novelty acts at all, you would have thought. What could possibly go wrong?

  It was only a matter of time before the Stiff bandwagon clattered into the north-west and parked itself in Manchester city centre.

  The venue for the fateful night in question was to be Rafters, yet again: the scene of both the debacle with Fast Breeder and the inebriated girlfriend incident. How we got on the bill for this one I can only imagine. We certainly didn’t just turn up and expect to play like we had at the Ranch, so presumably Terry, as our notional manager, had something to do with it. The gigs we did at Rafters (and I may be imagining this) all seemed to involve Dougie James (of Soul Train fame), who worked upstairs at the swisher Fagins nightery, so he may have had a hand in getting us on the bill. It is also more than likely that Alan Wise, doctor, scholar and legend of Manchester’s gigging world, had some input. He usually did. He appears in most tales of Manchester venues in some capacity or other.

  However it happened, we turned up for the shindig and were given a piece of paper with a vague running order of ten, fifteen or more bands on it. There was V2, Spider Mike King, the Yo-Yos, Prime Time Suckers and a band called the Negatives. Of course, there was no mention of Joy Division – or even ‘Joy Davidson’ as we had once been billed at Rafters. (I found this out when, unsure as to exactly the date of our next gig, I rang up the venue pretending to be a curious punter, and asked politely what live acts would be performing in the coming weeks, only to be told ‘next Thursday we’ve got a lady vocalist, the lovely Joy Davidson’.)

  Past experience having taught me that getting two bands to agree the running order could be a tortuous ordeal, I had a pretty good inkling that this was going to be a very long night – a long, fractious squabble-filled night. Ah, the camaraderie and comradeship of musicians in the seventies Manchester new wave scene warms my heart.

  To pointlessly pass the time during such occasions, I had acquired a pot of Slime to play with and relieve the inevitable stress. Slime is a wonderful invention: a tub full of snot-like disgusting fluorescent green jelly that could be squished, squeezed and juggled. Simple pleasures, simpler times. It is difficult now to explain quite what the appeal of this was. The target audience was the under-tens.

  Even in my twenties, I loved toy and model shops. They always seemed places of happiness and fun, and Slime looked to me like it could be a lot of fun. The question most right-minded folk would ask a twenty-year-old carrying a tub of useless green jelly would be, ‘What on earth have you got that for?’ or ‘What have you been wasting your money on now?’

  I got asked this all the time.

>   I still do.

  There were no electronic gadgets to waste money on then so maybe that explains it.

  On the night in question, Gillian and I discussed the many potential uses of Slime. What I thought was a hilarious plan formed. What if we engaged someone – the victim – in conversation or some other diversion, and while he or she was distracted, slipped a large dollop of this green goo down their shirt? Or even better, into their pocket . . . for later discovery. Boredom, the mother of puerile invention.

  Elsewhere in the venue, the potential impact and the logistic problems of the sheer number of bands was beginning to dawn. It was minor at first: everything would simply get moved a bit later. (When did anything ever get moved earlier at a gig?) But as Joy Division didn’t have a time to start with, what did this mean for us? Hooky and Terry were doing their best to sort this out, but so were about fifteen other bands, all expecting this gig to be ‘the big one’.

  So, as to be expected, things were from the outset quite tense and the close proximity to large quantities of strong lager (Holsten Pils) would only exacerbate that.

  The running/billing negotiations took a turn for the worse when Hooky, Terry or Ian raised the question of why the Negatives were on the bill at all.

  ‘They’re not even a proper band, just a bunch of fucking NME hacks taking the piss.’

  The Negatives were loosely comprised of Dave Bentley (the Drones’ manager), Steve Shy (of Shy Talk fanzine), Paul Morley (NME), Kevin Cummins (who also worked for NME and perhaps wisely would stick to a career in photography), plus girlfriends on backing vocals. Predictably, their presence would only inflame things further.

  Now you could take a Situationist point of view on this (which perhaps the Negs did) and argue that they had a perfectly valid right to be there, and that top of the bill was the only acceptable slot for them seeing as how they felt they were the most archly anarchic and new waviest bunch there.

  We, of course, disagreed and cried foul. What began as a good-natured bit of banter on both sides gradually bubbled and fizzed with alcohol-fuelled belligerence as events ground on.

  Band after band dumped their gear on the tiny stage (or borrowed somebody else’s gear to speed things up), played the microcosm of a set (time was tight and getting tighter) and trundled off, while the next lot argued the toss about whose turn it was now.

  Sometime around about V2’s glam set – still featuring former Warsaw drummer Steve Brotherdale and someone I seemed to remember from my brief spell at Audenshaw Grammar (Mark Standley) on guitar – Gillian, who has always had a great knack for identifying a face in a crowd, spied Tony Wilson at the end of the crumbling mock-Tudor half-timbered bar area.

  ‘Let’s slime Wilson!’ I said. His position as man on the telly with a bit of an arty-farty outlook made him a prime candidate for the role of victim in this ridiculous scheme.

  Gillian, closely followed by a slightly tipsy Ian, went to engage the luminary and TV presenter in conversation while I readied the Slime.

  Ian was many things (too many things possibly), but one thing he was not was violent. He could (very quickly) get wound up and he would let frustration spill over into rage in a Basil Fawlty manner. But at no time was anyone’s wellbeing ever at risk. Even if their name was Anthony and they worked for Granada TV.

  ‘Hello, Tony,’ began Gillian demurely, ‘when are you going to have Joy Division on “What’s On”?’

  To which Tony commenced his usual reply, ‘Darling, I get—’

  Only to be interrupted as our singer steamed in with . . .

  ‘Yeah, Tony, when are you gonna put us on? You’ve had V2 on, you’ve had Buzzcocks on. What about us, ya cunt?’

  If Tony was taken aback in any way, he didn’t show it at the time. ‘You’ll be on next, darling, I promise.’

  ‘Yeah, fuckin right! Ya twat.’ A final salvo from Ian, and schmoozy conversation was thus curtailed – all before I could get a chance to unleash the green goo.

  As V2 trooped off, I said hello to my glammed-up predecessor, who informed me that V2 would soon be embarking on a lengthy US tour. I wished him all the best as he sauntered off with a spangly-dressed lady friend.

  Meanwhile, stage left, the Negatives v. Joy Division skirmish was showing no sign of abating. The night was turning into a déjà vu of the Fast Breeder gig, only even more annoying. The same ‘yes you can, no you can’t play’, the same ‘everyone’s against us’ paranoia. It was getting to be a habit.

  A full-on goading competition was now taking place between the Negs and Ian, ably supported by Hooky and Terry. We must have been past band number ten by now, and the heat and the frustration were getting dangerously high.

  Eventually a compromise of sorts was reached; we could go on after the Negatives, who were still drunkenly arguing for top billing, but we had to be off the stage by 2 a.m.

  After the Negatives’ much-delayed exit from the stage – they really were taking the piss – we hastily threw our gear on and played as though our lives depended on it.

  We didn’t win the contest (it was Spider Mike King, who was pretty good) but, and I may be biased, I honestly think we got the best reception of the night. Maybe everyone was just relieved it was all over and they could go home. But even Tony Wilson came back and congratulated us all. As he raved about how great he thought we were, I was quite glad he didn’t have a load of Slime in his pocket.

  And that DJ was there again.

  One lunchtime, back from record hunting, I was at work, feet on the desk, on the phone speaking to Bernard, discussing the time of the next night’s rehearsal, when he suddenly began to sound very agitated. He was in a phone box in Spring Gardens.

  ‘Oh fuck, it’s that bloke from Rafters again. The DJ. He’s banging on the window, hang on, hang on, what should I tell him? I’ll have to call you back in a minute, Steve.’

  The phone on my desk rang again and after the ‘beep beep beep’ tone of two pences being poured into the slot, Bernard’s voice continued.

  ‘It was him again, he’s still going on about wanting to be a manager. I told him to come to rehearsals and he can ask us all then.’

  That phone call I can remember quite vividly. Rob Gretton coming through the door of our room at T. J. Davidson’s that very first time is a wee bit hazy though. It must have happened, but perhaps it’s shrouded by a cloud of hash smoke. That seems likely.

  And maybe we went to the pub, the City Arms, the one across the road from the intriguing International Marine boat showroom on Whitworth Street. International Marine and another place under the bridge in Salford, Interarms, seemed to hint at some Manchester-based corporate global conspiracy, something out of Burroughs or Ballard. The blank exterior of Interarms’ building seemed to be hiding something.

  Yes, the pub, that’s what I think I can remember. A pint of shandy for the driver. That’s me.

  ‘I’ll get them in, what you having?’

  Rob smoked. Now there were three of us, lighting up, ‘Give us a fag then. Fuckin’ ’ell, Ian, not Marlboros, give you a bad throat, them. I’ll have one of yours, Steve, thanks. Christ, No. 6, a bit better, not much.’

  Somebody must have given him a lift back to Chorlton.

  So that would be me then. It was on the way back to Macc.

  Rob didn’t drive. Just me, Hooky and Terry; Barney still had the bike.

  From the start, Rob seemed older than the rest of us. He was slightly, but the age difference seemed much wider than it was. He was confident, maybe it was that, or perhaps the streak of grey at the front of his otherwise dark tidy hair. Or was it the spectacles that did it? Made him look somehow wiser.

  Whatever it was, we didn’t take much persuading. He was like us and not like us. Anyway, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He became our manager. We didn’t um and ah about it much, not then.

  He called us daft as we told him about the records, the Electric Circus thing, the EP and the Richard and John RCA album. He called us lemons and said tha
t people thought we were Nazis, did we know that?

  ‘Oh yeah,’ we laughed.

  ‘Have you signed anything?’

  Er, mmm.

  We were the stupid kids and he was the grown-up.

  He said something about working with Slaughter and the Dogs. He’d grown up in Wythenshawe, so they were a local band. He’d been managing the Panik (hadn’t Ian been in the frame for that band once upon a time?). He’d put out a single for them. He’d give us a copy.

  ‘Got loads left.’

  Rainy City Records was the name of his label. Good Mancunian name.

  Here’s an interview with Rob in which I think he somehow manages to mix up memories of the Fast Breeder gig (with Warsaw) and the Stiff/Chiswick contest (Joy Division) and skips a few weeks. Or maybe it’s my faulty memory.

  Whatever, I always found it best to let Rob have the last word. He would anyway.

  Anyway Fast breeder decided to go on before them because they were running so late. Fast Breeder went on at say . . . half twelve. Well a lot of people started going home after that time. So Warsaw got on at about half past one, twenty to two, y’know. And that’s why . . . and all the equipment broke down and all that. And they had a really bad time. The PA didn’t arrive ’til nine o’clock or ten o’clock. That’s why they were all running late. And erm, that’s why he went smashing glasses and that. I thought it looked really weird. Ian looked really weird then. Like he had his hair cut up to here and, er, leather pants on. They looked like little rich boys but dead weird. S’like you just get fed up of going to gigs and seeing that . . . I don’t know, it just fuckin’ amazed me. And I went up and telling them at the end, and telling them how brilliant I thought they was. And the usual thing . . .

  ‘FUCK OFF. NO BASTARD’LL SIGN US THOUGH! EVERYBODY’S AGAINST US. WE WERE LUCKY TO GET ON.’

  And Tony Wilson . . . And I went in the dressing room and told them after. Well there wasn’t really a dressing room. Round the back. And told them how great I thought they were. And Tony Wilson came in and said, ‘I thought that was absolutely brilliant.’