Hooleygan

by Terri Hooley

  The film is raw and uncompromising, and in my opinion, a genuine piece of social history. I grew up in the sixties and it is sad that there is nothing from that time to record what was happening in Belfast or the great bands that played here, but Shellshock is a lasting record of what it was like to be in Northern Ireland in the late seventies. As John T. put it at the time, ‘The music is rough and reactionary and is all punk, but contains a certain quality that speaks volumes on contemporary life in Northern Ireland.’

  ‘Shellshock Rock’ – John T. Davis

  It’s hard to believe the story I’m telling you has its origins some thirty years ago, in 1978–9, the dawn of time for me as a young filmmaker as I searched for the diamond, the golden trail, the canvas to cast off into life’s great illusions. I’m talking about Shellshock Rock and the subsequent mythology surrounding the film, which has attained such a cult status as to be recognised by the British Film Institute, in whose vaults it now resides for all time.

  There is of course the even more murky mythology that precedes Shellshock days, concerning how Mr Hooley and I may have met. My strongest memory is of the Folk Club Terri had just off the Dublin Road in Belfast. This was one of those places in the late sixties where folk had gone well beyond the idea of the Kingston Trio. It was hip, and the higher you got while in that three storey building, the hipper it got.

  I can remember one particular night when all manner of music and relevant consumables had been consumed, and the festivities were winding down, that I found myself experiencing one of the most enduringly inspirational moments of all time: myself, Terri, Charlie Whisker and Van Morrison, all relieving ourselves out in the back alley – a stream of hot, steaming, creative urine running together, flowing into the Dublin Road and beyond.

  I wonder if Van remembers this event.

  It was really when Shellshock started to happen that my friendship with Terri was rekindled. One day whilst crossing the Queen’s Bridge I saw this figure, complete with cycle clips, cycling towards me. It was Terri, who I hadn’t seen for a long time. We quickly caught up amidst the rush-hour traffic. He told me to come on down to the shop, and that’s how it all got started. I had already filmed Stiff Little Fingers for the film and was beginning to understand a little of what was happening with music in Belfast during Northern Ireland’s darkest days. Kids were coming from both sides of the divide – punk was bringing them together – and they were rejecting traditional ideas. There was a little chink of light flickering in the blackness, and Terri Hooley’s record shop, Good Vibrations, was Punk HQ. I could hardly believe what I had stumbled upon.

  Terri was, and still is, the punk guru of Belfast and possibly the world. He never sold out and was responsible for creating an environment that nurtured and developed the hopes and dreams of kids from war-torn Belfast. The fact that I had known him years before opened the door for me – he gave me a seal of approval with the bands and their fans, so they welcomed me into their world. It was wonderful and it totally revitalised me. I had been out on the prairie too long.

  I can’t go into the whole tale of Shellshock here in this piece, there are just too many good stories to do them all justice. All I will say is that Shellshock would not be the film it has become without Terri’s help: he is a master of promotion and publicity.

  When the film was finally finished, and our little diamond in the rough was ready for the world, great celebrations were planned for the premiere at the 1979 Cork Film Festival. Terri, myself, RUDI, The Outcasts and Ross Graham – who worked on the film with me – together with our own respective entourages, were to arrive en masse in Cork on the day of the premiere like a band of punk gypsies. There was a great feeling of excitement and jubilation in the air.

  Then, out of the blue, the day before our departure for Cork, I got a phone call from the festival organisers … We had been axed, banned, rejected – call it what you will, Cork didn’t want us. The festival selection committee had issued a statement declaring our film, ‘technically not up to standard’. They had effectively banned Shellshock Rock and all it stood for.

  Well, you can imagine how I felt; I won’t even attempt to describe the mood. I called Terri to break the bad news and he said, ‘John, it’s the best thing that could possibly have happened.’ A master at work, he knew that this would be a great opportunity for some excellent publicity, so we all decided to go to Cork anyway. We were angry and ready for battle.

  By the time we got to Cork, however, our bedraggled group of gypsy punks – now bemused and confused after hours of travel – wondered, ‘what do we do now?’ We were all standing on a street corner with Terri, as leader, pacing the sidewalk, deep in thought and clutching a can of Coke. As I watched, two American tourists approached, deposited a 50p coin into the can of Coke … and walked off. I couldn’t believe my eyes, what must we have looked like? Terri turned to me and said, ‘John, we’ve got to clean up our act.’

  Terri had already been on Dave Fanning’s RTÉ radio Rock Show expressing his outrage at Shellshock being dropped from the festival, so the news was out. The battle plan was now to collar as many of the journalists who had flocked to Cork as we could, and to literally press-gang the festival into issuing an explanation as to the ban.

  With indemonstrable style, Mr Hooley swung into action. Reporters swarmed around, each wanting an exclusive story from me and, with the help of local film-makers, Joe Comerford, Cathal Black, and Tiernan MacBride, a special press screening was hastily organised. Shellshock blew the press away, and we were in every major newspaper by sundown. At an extraordinary press conference held shortly after the screening, Festival Director Robin O’Sullivan squirmed his way through a barrage of pertinent criticisms, and was eventually forced to retract the original statement – ‘technically not up to standard’ – though he would not offer up any plausible reason for pulling the film hours before its premiere. This raised serious questions about their political views and brought the values of the very festival itself into question.

  But we had won the battle, and now everyone wanted to see Shellshock. The only problem now was where and how to show it. In stepped Elvera Butler – Entertainments Officer at UCC at the time – with an offer to help. She gave us the old Arcadia ballroom, which was UCC’s ‘Downtown Kampus’, as a venue and that night Shellshock Rock, along with RUDI and The Outcasts, played to a crowd of two thousand ecstatic kids. Can you imagine how we all felt? That night has gone down in history.

  Thanks, in many ways, to the Cork Festival and their inflexible attitudes of the time, Shellshock Rock came of age, even winning an award at the 1979 New York International Film and Television Festival. That same year, it got a distribution deal in America and took its simple message out into the world for all to see. I am totally indebted to Terri for his part in all of this.

  Thank you, bless you Terri.

  Laugh at Me!

  By late 1979, I was riding high. The Good Vibrations tour had gone off without a hitch, most of our bands were being signed up to the big leagues and life was a constant party. I had reason to celebrate!

  Most importantly, on 6 September 1979 I became a father when Ruth gave birth to our beautiful baby daughter, Anna. Sadly, in those days it wasn’t customary for dads to be there for the actual birth but, true to form, when she was born I had the party of all time. My wife and newborn daughter were in hospital and I was out partying like a madman!

  I remember that at this time The Outcasts’ bass player Greg Cowan had been injured in a road accident and was brought to the same hospital as my wife. All these punks would arrive to see him and then come down the corridor to see Ruth and the new baby. You can just imagine the look on the faces of the staff as dozens of punks invaded the maternity unit to coo over the new arrival!

  But they were all great lads at heart, despite their tough exterior, and the more time I spent with them, watching them on-stage and helping them develop their careers, the more I knew I wanted to experience the thrill of performing
myself. Being around those young, energetic, anarchic bands really got me going, and they would often coax me on-stage to do a turn – not that I needed much encouragement to get up and do my thing!

  My song of choice was always ‘Laugh at Me’, an old Sonny Bono number that nobody ever really remembers, but when I first heard the song in the mid-sixties, the lyrics struck a chord with me:

  Why can’t I be like any guy?

  What do they care about the clothes I wear?

  Why get their kicks from making fun?

  I had only ever considered myself to be a warm-up act for the bands, it was just a laugh really, but the audience always seemed to love me and I really enjoyed being up in front of so many people. I had performed a few times before during the sixties, though it was always just for fun. When I went to parties people would sing and play guitar and, since I didn’t have a note in my head, I would get up and recite some revolutionary poetry or something! I have always been a bit of an exhibitionist and I loved getting up in front of a crowd, so I would do it any chance I got, though I think the most memorable occasion was on my thirtieth birthday in December 1978.

  The big day had coincided with a punk gig at The Harp Bar, so I basically turned it into a birthday party for me. I wanted to put on a performance for all my friends, so I had approached people who I used to play with in the sixties to put together a band. I had even thought of a name for us, we could be The Geriatrics. However, getting those guys out of the pub proved difficult, so RUDI and Protex agreed to back me instead. I got up on-stage and sang ‘Laugh at Me’. The audience loved it, and someone even suggested I put it out as a record. This reaction stuck with me and so I performed the song as a party piece for a while afterwards. It always went down well so I thought, why not record it and see what sort of reaction it gets?

  So, around Easter 1979, I booked a slot at the Chicken Shack recording studio in Ahoghill and, with the help of the late Geoff Harden – an old friend of mine, and an engineer at the BBC – we recorded my spoof record under the name Terri and the Terrors. Several members of The Outcasts and RUDI provided the instrumental, even recording an orchestral version for the B-side.

  At that time, my good friends Stan Brennan and Phil Gaston – whom I had known from my days in the Queen’s Esoteric Society – ran a stall in London’s Soho Market which, by the way, is where I first met a certain Shane MacGowan, before he became the world’s most famous drinker! Anyway, thanks to Stan and Phil I was in contact with a bloke called Alex Howe, who ran the Wretched Records stall at the market. Alex was a big Good Vibes fan and regularly sold our stuff on his stall. He even ran a regular ad in NME and Melody Maker advertising the fact he had our products. But even more importantly, I had discovered that he was setting up his own record label, Fresh Records, and so I decided to send him a copy of ‘Laugh at Me’, just to see how it would be received.

  Alex called me up a few weeks later and told me that he was interested in putting ‘Laugh at Me’ out. He had no idea that I was the singer and when I told him he couldn’t believe it! But I agreed to let him put the song out and the record was released in October 1979.

  I remember going to London around that time to meet up with Alex. It was around then that XDreamysts were signing with Polydor, and they were performing at The Venue in New Cross (which was owned by Virgin boss Richard Branson) so they invited me to come along. When I arrived, they asked me to take to the stage and, as there were a lot of record company and music press people there, I obliged. I knew that this was my chance to tell them all what I really thought of them, so I got up, grabbed the mic and then got stuck in.

  I told them they knew fuck all about rock ’n’ roll, and fuck all about bands and how they operated. I said, ‘This one’s for you’ and sang ‘Laugh at Me’. At the end, I took out my glass eye and shouted, ‘Go, laugh at me now you fuckers.’ Trade magazine, Music Week said I was a genius for taking on the music press and then went on to report: ‘After taking on the press he took out his glass eye! What does he do for an encore? Unscrew his wooden leg?’ So in the end, ‘Laugh at Me’ got a London launch and review, and it didn’t even cost me a penny!

  Six months later, I received a phone call from an old friend of mine, Walter Coote, who was from Belfast originally but had been living in London for a few years. He told me that he had picked up a copy of Sounds magazine, that he had taken a look at the Alternative Chart and that his eyes had nearly popped out on stalks when he saw that my song had reached number one – I couldn’t believe it, I thought it was a joke. I ran out as soon as I could to buy my own copy of Sounds and there I was at number one, ahead of all these great bands like the Dead Kennedys and The Damned.

  That’s when it really hit me: I had made it to number one! I said to myself, ‘I’m never going to let anyone in Belfast forget this,’ and I haven’t! Terri and the Terrors earned £3,000 in royalties from ‘Laugh at Me’ and we used the money to buy presents for kids at Barnardo’s, so we never felt guilty about making money from a rip-off record. If anything, this song had managed to expose the double standards of the music industry. I mean, there was nothing polished about the record, yet ‘Laugh at Me’ was a hit, while so many bands and performers who deserved to record for a big label were passed over.

  There was no denying that I had caught the performing bug and I went into the studio a number of times after that. My particular favourites were ‘Falling In Love With The Monster Man’ and ‘I’m In Love With Dracula’s Daughter’ which I recorded the following Halloween in one of those record-yourself booths for a couple of quid. I gave copies to friends whether they wanted it or not. After recording those songs I put together a band called The Rocking Humdingers and we landed a gig at the Halloween Ball at Queen’s where I was carried on-stage in a coffin. When we first came on-stage the crowd chanted, ‘Fuck off, Hooley!’ but I got an extra £100 for the extraordinary performance. Carlene Carter, Johnny Cash’s stepdaughter was also on the bill that night and the whole thing was bonkers.

  But the best bit about my whole recording experience was when I received a telegram from Thin Lizzy’s Phil Lynott. He had heard about my alternative-chart success with ‘Laugh at Me’ and had wanted to congratulate me in his own unique way: ‘You one-eyed Protestant bastard,’ the telegram read, ‘I’ve always wanted to be number one in the alternative chart!’ Luckily, I had been good friends with Phil for years so I knew he was happy for me.

  Phil was one of the true pioneers of modern Irish music. He had started his career in the mid-sixties with a band called The Black Eagles and, after flirting with a few other outfits, formed Thin Lizzy in 1969 with guitarist Eric Bell, keyboardist Eric Wrixon – both former Them stalwarts – and drummer Brian Downey. He also did a lot of work down the years with a sensational guitarist from Belfast called Gary Moore with whom I had gone to school.

  I first met Phil in The Pound in 1973 – that place has a lot to answer for! – when Thin Lizzy’s breakthrough hit, a rocked-up version of traditional Irish ballad ‘Whiskey In The Jar’, was in the charts. I can’t remember who was playing that night but Phil and I got talking and struck up a good friendship. We didn’t swap numbers or anything like that but we often bumped into each other on the music scene. I’d like to think we were kindred spirits, only he had all the talent and I had the good looks!

  I certainly had some really great times with Phil. We used to meet up in Dublin, in a pub just off Grafton Street called The Bailey – a great spot that was frequented by musicians and other luvvies – and I recall going to see him one particular night in London while he was working in the studio.

  It was 1979 and Thin Lizzy were putting the finishing touches to their Black Rose album with legendary producer Tony Visconti – best known for his work with David Bowie and T-Rex. When I arrived, Phil told me that he’d had a tip off that the Drug Squad was going to raid the place, so he had ensured it was completely clean. However, not everyone seemed to have received the message as, no sooner had we arrived, than
someone produced some Nepalese Temple Balls, which essentially were balls of hashish. The fear of a drugs raid went out the window, and soon we were smoking away. Gary Moore was Thin Lizzy’s guitarist at this time, so he was there that night and, after a few hours smoking that stuff, we both felt sufficiently moved to sing ‘The Sash’ for Phil!

  That night they were mixing ‘Sarah’, a song about Phil’s newborn daughter, and I said to Visconti, ‘I think you should move some of your faders.’ Imagine that, Terri Hooley giving one of the greatest producers of all time advice on how to mix a track! But I was so stoned and was feeling super-confident so I told Phil that if they ever released the track as a single it would be a hit. They did, and it was. Now, I’m not saying it had anything to do with me, but you have to wonder ...

  In 1981, I met up with Phil again. This time, one of the new Good Vibes bands, The Nerves, had won the Northern Ireland heat of a Battle of the Bands competition and were through to the national final. Ricky Flanagan and I went over to England to support them, but, rather predictably, didn’t make the gig and instead ended up smoking dope with a couple of girls we met from County Down. I rang the band to see how they had done – they hadn’t won, but had done very well – and arranged to meet them at a nightclub in Park Lane for the after party. It was only when I arrived that I discovered that Lynott had been one of the judges! Inevitably, we both got stuck into the drink and the rest of the night is a blur. The only thing I remember is that he gave me a great piece of advice which I, unfortunately, couldn’t remember when I woke up the next morning! That was a night out with Phil.