Max acknowledged that a lot of the great music he valued had spluttered out of a band’s cack-handed attempts to copy the best parts of their dads’ record collections. Such alchemy often resulted from the most spontaneous and unplanned process; from the lowest of expectations. He knew his band needed to establish precedents; accepted touchstones that could be referenced in interviews. Grounding foundations that would give the band a shared musical anchor. Such things were important. He’d rehearsed being asked ‘Who are your influences?’ by a succession of star-struck Sounds journalists. In these temporal conversations, he struggled to be consistent or concise. His choices changed daily. This wasn’t good, and God only knew what the others would say if asked unrehearsed. Focus was required.
45s and LPs charting the development of popular music lay scattered around Max’s portable record player, its lid open as if it had just exploded. Elvis Presley, gazing sideways from the cover of his first LP towards The Clash’s London Calling, like a proud father regarding how similarly handsome his son had become. Never Mind The Bollocks and Parallel Lines, All Mod Cons and Closer. The Beatles ‘Penny Lane/Strawberry Fields Forever’ – the sonic equivalent of the Sistine Chapel ceiling – lay next to ‘Ghost Town’ by The Specials. Seminal singles by Marc Bolan, Mott the Hoople and Elvis Costello & the Attractions … all were the subject of detailed analysis as if Max was studying them for an upcoming PhD examination. They were all small, vital pieces in the jigsaw puzzle he was trying to assemble; the musical lineage of The Miraculous Vespas.
Max had brought the small, black record player down to their rehearsal space. He’d also carried boxes of the records that he’d been acquiring of late with funds from the band’s bank account. There were now two signatories to the account – Grant and Max – but each could draw money from it independently, provided they filled in the ledger book accurately. For all Max’s obvious faults, he was initially diligent in recording the debit expenditure. Unfortunately for The Miraculous Vespas, there was little to nothing in the credit columns. Max Mojo reckoned that all that was about to change, though. Orange Juice had finally hit the UK Top Ten with ‘Rip It Up’, and Max was convinced that this alone would bring the majors flying up to Scotland, wallets bulging and blank cheques already endorsed. He had sorted out three showcase gigs in local Kilmarnock pubs in the last week of April. Letters written to various radio-station DJs, such as ‘Tiger’ Tim Stevens and Billy Sloan up in Glasgow, and Mac Barber from Ayr-based West Sound, had received responses. They were tentative acceptances, admittedly, but still, enough to be feeling upbeat about. Max had also written numerous letters to former Postcard major-domo, Alan Horne, asking for advice. His one reply, in bold, massive capitals … on an actual postcard … of ‘AWAY AND FUCK YERSELF, SON!’ had led to an agricultural shooting spree to rival The Glorious Twelfth. Similar correspondence to Paul Morley at the New Musical Express and Dave McCullough at Sounds had so far gone unnoticed. Max figured the route to the London-based music industry could only come through the music press, so patient perseverance would have to become a learned characteristic.
Max had asked the foursome to bring in their favourite records, like a lazy music teacher trying to pass a bored period with delinquent pupils. If they didn’t have their own, they were encouraged to pick from Max’s burgeoning collection. His objective was to try and understand them better, musically; to work out their passions and what fired their collective imaginations. Simon Sylvester had initially told him to fuck off after he realised that part of this would also involve explaining to the others why the choice of record was so personally special. ‘Ah’m in this band tae play … an’ shag women,’ he’d argued, ‘No’ tae dae your fuckin’ homework, mate.’ However, he’d relented, and all four now sat on the stage around Max Mojo’s piles of records.
‘Ladies first, eh?’ said Max, in a rare expression of chivalry. ‘BB, you’re up.’ Maggie sighed. She passed around the one record she had brought with her. It was a twelve-inch single. Max examined it like it was the Holy Grail.
‘Hey, nae fuckin’ LPs, Maggie. That’s cheatin’. Make her dae lines, Max!’ said Simon. Maggie smiled.
‘Shut up, an’ let her play it, you,’ said Grant. ‘On ye go, Mags.’ He smiled at her. Maybe whatever ice had recently formed between them was now thawing. Just in time, thought Max.
‘It’s jist a new yin. Ma mam bought it for me. It’s Gil-Scott Heron … “B-Movie”. Any ae ye’se heard it?’
‘Aye. Me,’ lied Max. He hadn’t, but didn’t want to admit it. Maggie put it on the turntable. Even for five individuals with such eclectic tastes, ‘B-Movie’ was a bizarre choice of record to kick off this bonding session.
‘Is there nae fuckin’ singin’ in it?’ said Simon.
‘Naw. It’s a socio-political poem, set tae music,’ replied Maggie. ‘A protest against Ronald Ray-gun.’
‘So whit dae ye like aboot it, mainly?’ asked Max.
‘It means somethin’. It’s no’ just about love or any ae that short-term shit,’ she said. ‘Plus, the groove’s kinda hypnotic.’
‘Aye … ah get that,’ said Max nodding. ‘Ah prefer “The Bottle” though.’
‘Twelve minutes ae that an’ ye’d be turnin’ tae the fuckin’ bottle,’ said Simon.
‘Hey Si-mone?’ Maggie extended her middle finger. ‘Mandate my ass!’
‘Anytime, hen … anytime,’ he said.
‘Whit you got, Eddie?’ said Grant sharply.
‘Ah’ll go last,’ said Eddie, through the visor. ‘And it’s Motorcycle Boy.’
‘Sorry, man. Right, ah’ll go next,’ said Grant. Grant Delgado played ‘Roadrunner’ by Jonathan Richman & The Modern Lovers to universal approval. ‘It’s intelligent, timeless, cool and disnae give a fuck!’ he said.
‘Just like you, ye mean?’ said Maggie.
‘Aye. Just like me,’ he replied, laughing. The record was Max’s. Grant reflected on how much influence Max had had on his musical direction. They’d known each other for less than a year but in that time, Grant had moved from fledgling New Romantic to desperately hip beatnik. It was all really down to the younger man’s sometimes aggravating promptings.
‘Ah mind the first time ah heard this,’ said Simon, as The Jam’s ‘Start’ played. ‘Radio Luxembourg, it wis. Ah wis in the bath, havin’ a Sherman Tank, when this yin came on. Damn near pit me aff ma fuckin’ stroke. Listen tae the bass.’ It was the most familiar of the three so far played. Again, they all loved it.
‘It’s a bass line nicked fae The Beatles,’ Max pointed out.
‘Is it fuck!’ said Simon.
‘Aye. “Taxman” affa Revolver,’ said Grant. Max dug out the LP and played its opening track.
‘Fuck sake! Ach who cares, eh? Still great, though.’
Max Mojo played his track next. It was ‘I’ll Never Fall in Love Again’, by Bobbie Gentry.
‘Listen tae the weird lyrics, Grant. That’s a fuckin’ heartbreak song, pal.’ said Max, ‘an’ that bizarre song construction. It’s really fuckin’ minimalistic.’
‘Ah don’t even ken whit that means, mate,’ Simon admitted.
‘There’s fuck all wasted. Fuckin’ Bacharach, man … makes every bastart second count,’ said Grant. Once again, it received the thumbs up from the Crosshouse Juke Box Jury.
‘Motorcycle Boy?’ said Grant Delgado. Simon sniggered as his brother finally took off the helmet and reached into a bag he had brought with him. The Motorcycle Boy pulled out a battered seveninch single. Its cover was torn and had been sellotaped many times.
‘This is the only thing ah can remember aboot ma mam. Her singin’ away tae this in the kitchen … thinkin’ naebody wis listenin’. But ah wis. Sittin’ at the top ae the stairs. She had a great voice, didn’t she, Si? Ma Da loved Country & Western. Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard, mainly. An’ they baith loved aw the crooners. Sinatra, Como, Dean Martin, ken? Remember that big, broon Marconi, Simon? Ah fuckin’ remember aw they LP covers they had. Aul’ Bl
ue Eyes, wi’ his hair fallin’ oot, oan the sleeve ae ‘My Way’. That big fuckin’ red lipstick kiss oan the Connie Francis record. The Everly’s shiny white teeth and matchin’ Arthur Montford jaickets. They fuckin’ hated each other more then me an’ you, Si!’ He put the seven-inch single on the record player. ‘Anyway, efter she died, ma Da threw them aw oot. Apart fae this yin. Ah kept it separate.’
Glen Campbell’s ‘Galveston’ came on.
‘If only we could dae somethin’ as fuckin’ brilliant as this, eh?’ said the Motorcycle Boy, as his brother stood up and walked to the rear of the hall. He touched his brother’s shoulder gently as he went.
‘Too right, boy,’ said Max. ‘That’s the basic challenge right there. Making music that’s as fuckin’ vital an’ brilliant as aw ae they five we’ve jist listened tae. If we can dae that, we’ll aw fuckin’ live forever.’
2nd April 1983
Maggie gave them a lift out to Crosshands Farm. She had fallen out with her mum again, and was happy to have somewhere else to be.
‘Ah’ll wait for ye here,’ she said, looking at the warzone that was the rubble-strewn driveway leading up to Hairy Doug’s shed.
‘Aye, probably better,’ said Max. ‘Stick oan yer Black & White Minstrels tape an’ we’ll be back before it’s by.’
‘Fuckin’ pack that shite in, you! Ah’m no’ gonnae tell ye again,’ warned Grant.
Max had been to the farm many times before. The original Vespas hired most of their speakers from Hairy Doug, but this trip was for a different purpose. The two teenagers tramped stealthily as if moving through the dangerous green fields of First World War-era France.
‘Ah’ll chap, an’ you can speak, right?’ said Max.
‘No chance!’ said Grant. ‘This is aw you, pal.’
As they were about to deliberate this further, the corrugated metal door opened and the massively framed biker squeezed himself through it.
‘Alright, son?’ said Hairy Doug as they approached gingerly for fear of stepping on something unidentified.
‘How’s it goin’, big man?’ said Max. ‘Tried tae phone earlier. Hoped we’d catch ye in.’
‘Come on in, boys. I’m Doug, by the way,’ he said to Grant, extending a sweaty, oil-stained paw the size of a baseball catcher’s mitt. Grant shook it, then wished he hadn’t.
‘What can I do fur ya, son?’ Hairy Doug said.
‘Can ah offer ye’se a cuppy tea? A wee Jaffy Cake mibbee?’ Max and Grant looked around. It wasn’t immediately clear where the high-pitched voice was coming from. Hairy Doug’s place only had two rooms, and it didn’t immediately appear to be coming from either of them.
‘…or mibbe a wee Top Deck Shandy?’ The owner of the voice popped up like a jack-in-the-box from behind an old wooden barrel that doubled as a table. It was surrounded by clutter. Max got a fright and squealed.
‘Sorry, sonny. Didnae mean to fricht ye. Was just doon feedin’ the cats.’
‘Boys, this is Fanny,’ said Hairy Doug. Grant spluttered. Max elbowed him.
‘Naw, eh … Fanny, I’m fine,’ said Max.
‘So, boy,’ said the hairy roadie. ‘Mixing desk, was it? Sixty quid all right?’
‘Fuck sake, Hairy … April Fools’ Day wis yesterday, big man!’
‘Come on through, an’ Hairy’s not my first name, by the by,’ Grant laughed at Max’s embarrassment. ‘You hiring then?’
‘Eh, aye, but ah’ve got a wee proposition tae!’ said Max.
‘Oh yeah? I’m intrigued,’ said Hairy Doug. ‘Fanny’ll see to you, son,’ he said to Grant, who again struggled to hold the laughter in.
Fifteen minutes later and they were back in the Campervan heading for Crosshouse.
‘Fanny?’ laughed Grant. ‘Hairy Doug and Hairy Fa…’
‘Well, ah dinnae think she’ll be changin’ her name tae that if they get married! Fuck sake, Grant … grow up!’ said Max. But Grant was in hysterics.
‘…an’ she wis actually hairier than him, Billy Connolly and The Grateful Dead put th’gither! Did ye see that moustache?’ Maggie was laughing so hard she had to pull the van over to the side of the road.
‘Jesus Christ! Is naebody takin’ this seriously? If anybody’s interested, the big yin said he’d dae it. Forty quid, an’ he’d bring the sound an’ light desk tae. That’s a fuckin’ result, in ma opinion, naw?’ Max was getting aggravated.
‘Aye … yer right, Max. A result, deffo,’ said Grant.
‘You’re the Master,’ said Maggie.
‘You’re Yoda,’ said Grant.
‘The Capo di Tutti Capi,’ said Maggie. Max’s face was growing redder.
‘Fuckin’ shut it, the pair ae ye’se! Yer actin’ like a pair ae … fannies!’
Grant and Maggie lost it again.
25
18th May 1983
Wullie the Painter’s first day on the vans was unremarkable. Since he’d asked Fat Franny for an introductory accommodation on one of Terry Connolly’s more lucrative routes, he’d anticipated countless wired, half-cut jakeys ‘waitin’ for their ‘ice-cream’ man. All he got was a shifty-looking dude asking how much for number 32 for a week, and when Wullie the Painter asked him to elaborate, the guy clammed up and said it was the chip van he’d wanted. Wullie thought this a little bizarre since the unmistakably tuneless sound this one made – allied to the massive ‘Ice Cream’ writing all around it – seemed a sure-fire giveaway. Onthank was full of strange characters though. By the end of the shift, Wullie the Painter was starting to wonder if it was all just a ruse; some sleight of hand to deflect Don McAllister’s Keystone Cops away from where the real action took place. It was a warm day, mind you. The Embassy Regal and ’99 count was substantial. He’d also gone through four boxes of flakes and had completely sold out of Tudor tomato-flavour crisps. The thru’penny bags were the top seller though. A wee scoop of Kola Kubes and white chocolate mice and other bizarre gummy crap that stuck to your false teeth were the uncontested Onthank winner. Ironically, there was even jelly fruit-flavour ‘false teeth’ sweets sold to kids who’d soon need the real thing. Maybe sugary confectionary was the real addiction after all? A tiny wee boy had almost run in front of the van trying to get it to stop. Wullie leaned out and shouted at him.
‘Ya stupid wee shite, ah nearly ran intae ye there!’
‘Mister, ma mam says ye only sell cigarettes efter tea time,’ the boy said. ‘Izzat true, mister?’
Wullie laughed. ‘Naw it isnae. Yer ma’s talkin’ pish,’ he said. ‘Here, ah’ll gie ye a ’99 for free!’
‘Ma mam says it’s too close tae tea time for a ’99,’ the boy said sadly.
‘Just take it … she’ll no’ ken.’ The wee boy’s eyes lit up as Wullie the Painter handed the ice-cream cone over the counter. ‘Have ye got a phone in the hoose?’ he asked the boy.
‘Aye, mister.’
Wullie handed the boy a piece of paper with numbers on it. ‘If she talks pish again, phone this number an’ ask for Esther Rantzen!’
Wullie the Painter lamented Bob Dale’s passing more and more with every day. Why could the stupid bastard not just have accepted his level in the Fat Franny empire? Wullie had enjoyed a cosy, stressfree existence these last three years since signing up. He’d paid his dues, got his own Wullie out, and was just starting to reap the rewards. There was no going back now, though. Fat Franny’s grip had slipped immeasurably in just nine months. Added to this, Des Brick had also gone ‘off the boil’. Fat Franny could still command a bit of respect simply because of past reputation. There remained a number of the young, up-and-comers straight out of school expulsion who wanted into the firm and were willing to do the Fatman’s bidding. But there were new, potentially more organised factions emerging in Onthank, ones that quickly understood that Bob Dale was the foundation on which Fat Franny Duncan’s tower was constructed. Although still standing, the removal of this big sturdy block left everything else above it in a precariously unstable position. All it would take wo
uld be a big gust of wind blowing down from the big city.
Wullie had reached out to Benny Donald in Crosshouse through an old football team mate. The approach was actually an honest one: The Fatman’s fucked an’ ah’m lookin’ for a transfer. Benny’s initial response – filtered through the same contact – was that everybody was feeling the pinch, but if Wullie the Painter could bring an income stream with him, Washer Wishart would consider it. It wasn’t a massive earner, but Wullie the Painter had cultivated a private sideline with a Kilmarnock removals driver. The driver brought back substantial amounts of beer and cigarettes from Europe, smuggled in through compartments in the vans. They were bought from ‘sources’ he’d established in Calais and Zeebrugge, and sold on in Ayrshire at a tidy profit. Wullie the Painter provided the purchasing funds and organised the sell-on. The driver took the risks at customs. The split was 50/50. It was decent business, but with Washer’s connections, the initiative could perhaps be expanded. Regardless, it was enough to get Wullie an audience, and that was his primary motivation right now.
The Quinns would be much harder to infiltrate. They were relentlessly suspicious of outsiders and since Wullie wasn’t planning to get married to one of Magdelena’s mental daughters, another route in would have to be considered. Ged McClure was the only non-family connection Wullie the Painter knew, but Ged was a headcase. The scams he ran were ridiculously dangerous and increasingly involved substantial personal risks, being associated with bigger and more ruthless organisations outside of Ayrshire. It was entirely likely that Ged McClure was one of the conduits to the McLartys and their apparent desire for Ayrshire resettlement; perhaps even the only one. Wullie had tried to contact Ged but had been informed ominously that he was ‘out of town on important business’ and that the timing of his return was ‘uncertain’. Wullie was certain his request would’ve gone on record. One way or another, Ged McClure would find out Wullie the Painter was looking for him.
The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Page 13