The biggest gig of The Miraculous Vespas’ short career so far occurred in the middle of the month. It was at Tiffany’s in Sauchiehall Street. Max had been contacted – by Billy Sloan no less – to ask if he’d consider opening for the intriguingly named The Jesus & Mary Chain, who were part of a Radio Clyde week-long showcase of new bands. The evening was an open one, but Billy had made it clear that the hall would be packed with London-based A&R men, record distributors and various producers.
It was a great opportunity, even though they were way down the undercard. The band spent the afternoon of their big test at a nearby Glasgow ten-pin bowling alley. X-Ray Raymonde had provided some Columbian marching powder, and Simon Sylvester brought the accompanying vodka. By the time they were due on stage, the band – with the honourable exception of the Motorcycle Boy – were hammered. They stumbled onto the famous Tiffany’s boards. They had all watched amazed as Bono from U2 clambered all over the speaker columns here just months earlier. This realisation seemed to get them. During the first song, Maggie fell off her drum stool. During the second number, Simon Sylvester staggered over to his brother’s guitar amps and disconnected his guitar. The normally cool and calm Grant Delgado spotted someone at the side of the stage making a ‘wanker’ motion towards him. Instead of ignoring it, the chemically aggravated frontman vaulted off the stage and another mass brawl started. Max Mojo meanwhile had jumped onstage and continued singing Grant’s lyrics. The Miraculous Vespas managed the four songs they were invited to perform, although the final one was delivered without a lead guitar part – since the Motorcycle Boy couldn’t find the hole to plug in his instrument – and with a different singer from the one they began with.
In the dressing room afterwards, X-Ray Raymonde said it was the greatest gig he’d ever seen, and they all dissolved into fits of pissed, hiccupping laughter.
The band was travelling around the West of Scotland in Jimmy Stevenson’s increasingly rancid van. He’d decided that cleaning it nightly was pointless, and that booking it in for a total valet at the end of the tour – paid for by Max – was the best plan. Jimmy did worry that the lingering smell of Simon Sylvester’s farts might never be removed, though.
Three nights later, The Miraculous Vespas finally supported Orange Juice. Prior to the gig, the refined Orange Juice entourage invited their support out for dinner, where they looked on in astonishment as The Miraculous Vespas drank the finger bowls and ate all of the relish, assuming it to be their starter.
Beyond these occupational hazards, the only other notable incident in The Miraculous Vespas’ summer mini-tour of Scotland, 1984, was self-inflicted. The band had just played Fat Sam’s in Dundee. Bored with being stuck in budget, cell-like hotel rooms night after night, while the band went out drinking post gig, the Motorcycle Boy broke into a vending machine and stole twenty Bic lighters. He was sharing a squalid double room in Dundee city centre with his brother, who had earlier skelped him with his bass. Simon Sylvester argued that it was accidental but a fight had broken out between the brothers on the tiny stage at Fat Sam’s. Frankie Fusi had been forced to intervene, and Grant had to finish the gig solo.
The band returned to the hotel around two am, and Simon Sylvester’s screams woke everyone on the second floor. Unable to sleep, the Motorcycle Boy had spent half an hour heating the metal door handle from the inside by holding the flame of the Bic lighters under it. Simon Sylvester was taken to Ninewells Hospital with severe burns to four fingers and the palm of his hand. The band returned to Ayrshire having cancelled the remaining three dates, and also the planned recording sessions for July.
Max Mojo fined the Motorcycle Boy. Despite previous threats, it was his first ever act of managerial discipline.
With Simon Sylvester unable to play or rehearse, Max Mojo gave the band an official week off. Like a shop steward negotiating terms, the stricken bass player ensured that it would be ‘paid’ leave for all but his brother before he would accept on behalf of the other, more ambivalent members of the band. Max acceded. The brothers stayed at home in Caprington. Simon was glad of the opportunity to stay in his bed until mid-afternoon, while the Motorcycle Boy spent the majority of the week holed up in the garage teaching himself how to play the piano.
There was a fragile armistice between Grant and Maggie. His new songs had melted her heart. She knew they were about her, and that through the lyrics he was attempting to tell her how sorry he was. But he had crossed a line from which there was normally no return. Maggie found it so hard to open up to people, especially males. She had to remind herself that there were almost five years between them. He was, in many ways, still just a daft wee boy. That alone might have been the end of it, but every time she made that decision in her mind, she found something that reminded her that he was capable of genuine sensitivity; of saying exactly the right thing at the right time. Like now, when he suggested they go away for a few days … to get a change of scenery; to allow their relationship to heal and renew itself. Where did he get these arcane but beautiful terms? she thought. She agreed, packed up the van and told no one at home where she was going, mainly because she didn’t actually know. Grant wanted it to be a surprise.
They had driven the thirty-five miles to Largs in relative silence. Apart from Maggie making a remark about the Hunterston Power Station on the Firth of Clyde becoming a nuclear target because of the reckless way Ronald Reagan was acting, the only sound was from the Campervan’s cassette player. Grant had brought along a homemade C90 with Prince’s Purple Rain on one side, and Echo and the Bunnymen’s Ocean Rain on the other. Since it was likely to rain for the majority of their time away, Grant thought the underlying theme was appropriate.
They stopped for ice cream at Nardini’s. Maggie marvelled at the Art Deco frontage of the famed parlour. She described it as quaint, a word Grant hadn’t heard before. He wrote it down in his notebook for future use. Maggie wanted to look for a souvenir shop where she might be able to buy a picture postcard featuring the building to show her mums, both of them. Grant said she wouldn’t need it. He gave her a package. It was a rectangular box wrapped up in an unused promotional flyer Max had made for the ‘First Picture’ single. Grant had insisted they drop it due to what he felt was a lapse in taste, even for Max Mojo. It read: THE FIRST PICTURE: DON’T DIE OF IGNORANCE.
The poster replicated the stone-cut graphics from the frightening Government Public Health campaign about AIDS. Maggie unwrapped the gift slowly. It was a camera; her first camera. She kissed him tenderly, took it out of the box and with Grant’s help, loaded film and batteries into it. She took her first picture, the classic landmark frontage of a North Ayrshire tourist institution. In return, Maggie gave him the tiny gold-coloured ring from her finger. It fitted his right pinky finger. He knew it wasn’t valuable, but that it meant a lot to Maggie.
Maggie Abernethy had never been on a ferry before. She was excited about the prospect of staying on an island, even though Grant had informed her that thousands of Glaswegians would be sharing it with them. It didn’t matter to Maggie. She was looking at this tiny lump of rock called Bute through a different lens from all the others who had sailed to it ‘doon the watter’ from the big city. She was also looking at Grant differently now too. He had told her repeatedly how sorry he had been about following her and eventually she’d assured him that it was forgotten.
Prince sang about the ‘Beautiful Ones’ and it seemed too coincidental for it not to be about a young couple from Kilmarnock on the very edge of their dreams becoming reality. Later that night, they were in the Campervan facing the narrow stretch of water they had earlier crossed. Maggie lay on her front, Grant on his back, blowing smoke rings. He reminisced fondly about the only other time he’d been here; to Rothesay, the tiny principal town on the Isle of Bute.
He’d come with his family around 1972. It was the only holiday they had ever gone on together. He recalled Senga laughing, and his dad being funny – Hobnail dramatically running down the promenade chasing a ping
-pong ball blown away from a ludicrous outdoor table-tennis game for the umpteenth time. They were happy in these recollections. They laughed and talked to each other. It was all so different when they were back at home. Grant used to wonder how many actual words had been uttered in the Onthank terraced house they all shared. At times it felt like days could pass without one word being expressed. These passages usually ended with the smashing of crockery. Then there would be too many words, all loudly and aggressively delivered like targetted weapons, aimed to do as much emotional damage as possible.
Grant Delgado loved words but sometimes he’d felt that they didn’t love him back. He flipped the cassette. The mood changed. Ian McCulloch now set the tone. It was Maggie’s turn at the confessional. She said Annie – her eighth foster mum – was the only person she had ever really trusted. They were very similar. Headstrong and controlling, and likely to explode without any prior warning, but deep down both were very loving. Maggie couldn’t imagine her real mum ever being as protective or nurturing. It had been Annie who had encouraged her to try and find out about her past and, particularly, her dad. Annie had been concerned at how Maggie invented past histories for herself, according to her mood, her level of boredom, or her desire to be duplicitous. Maggie had remained with Annie when she was eighteen, even though she had been expected to move out and start adult life independently. Annie had formed a real bond with this beautiful, but belligerent teenager. Experience told her that, like many kids who’ve moved around, from one destination to the next, Maggie was essentially rootless. Annie feared that she’d simply drift, and most probably into the dark corners of society. But Maggie was funny, and clever, and creative. Beyond the striking looks, she was different in so many other ways to the thirty or so kids Annie had already cared for. Sometimes Annie felt guilty in admitting that Maggie’s beauty made her feel more disposed to protect her than the other, less distinctive kids. But Annie knew there was nevertheless some truth in this. So Annie arranged for her to stay on.
That was almost five years ago. Neither had regretted it but Annie had persuaded Maggie to find out more about her real mum, as the only way to address her future.
Maggie told Grant what she now knew; the painful, difficult truths about her real father’s violent death, and the psychological effect it had on her real mother. Finally, Maggie wiped her face and smiled at Grant. ‘So there … ye ken it aw noo,’ she said. ‘Still interested?’ Grant didn’t answer. He simply pulled her close and held her even more tightly. They lay fully clothed on top of the Campervan’s bed, in silence and staring up at the brilliant full shape of the killing moon. Grant pondered how unique it was for all four band members to have lost parents in tragic circumstances. Without them really being aware of it, The Miraculous Vespas had become a substitute family for all of them, maybe as dysfunctional and confrontational as the ones from which they’d joined it.
44
June 1984
‘Thanks for comin’ boys,’ said Des Brick.
‘Hey, ah widnae ae missed it,’ said Wullie the Painter, then promptly, ‘Fuck, Des, that didnae come oot right. Ah didnae mean…’
‘It’s fine, Wullie,’ Des smiled. ‘Ah ken whit ye meant.’ He turned around, aware of someone standing behind him. ‘Good tae see ye Franny.’
‘Aye, you tae Des. Wish it wis’ under better circumstances, ken?’ said Fat Franny Duncan.
‘Aye. How’s Theresa?’ asked Des.
‘She’s good, mate. Past the mornin’ sickness stage noo, hopefully. That coastal air, mate. Works wonders fur ye, ken?’ said Fat Franny. ‘Whit aboot you, Painterman? Keepin’ yer nose clean?’
‘Aye, Franny. Cannae complain,’ he said. ‘Well, ah could, but nae cunt would listen,’ he added. ‘You’re lookin’ well.’
‘Aye, lost a few stone … mostly through cuttin’ that ponytail aff, mind you,’ said Fat Franny, chuckling.
The transformation in Fat Franny Duncan was remarkable. Not just in the aesthetics, but in the way he now carried himself. Where previously there was the shifty manner of a man anticipating the imminent intervention of the relevant authorities, there was now a calm, assured confidence. Wullie the Painter had heard a rumour that Fat Franny was even paying taxes, but he put that down to scurrilous urban myth. Some things are just too unbelievable to be true.
Des Brick turned again. He took the condolences of someone from Effie’s side whose name he couldn’t remember.
Fat Franny pulled Wullie the Painter to one side. ‘Look Wullie,’ he whispered. ‘Ah ken whit yer up tae wi’ McAllister.’
Wullie’s face was a rehearsed mixture of suspicion and bemusement. It changed as Fat Franny Duncan briefly described his own role in the Ayrshire sting.
‘Dinnae worry, ah’m ootae it aw noo,’ he concluded. ‘But you need tae watch yerself, son. Things are gonnae get mental, jist shortly. Don’t paint yerself intae corners ye cannae get ootae. McAllister an’ Lawson’ll drop ye right in it, if it suits them tae.’
Wullie the Painter barely recognised this new caring, sharing Fat Franny Duncan. He looked physically different, and all the healthier for it. But he even sounded different. His voice was softer and more measured, like it had been matured in oak vats over the last two years. He now resembled a fine bottle of red, where before he had been a shook-up bottle of Vimto. It suited him, and, perverse though it seemed, Wullie the Painter was pleased for him. The legitimate business Fat Franny had always craved suited him.
‘Des’ll be comin’ tae work wi’ me in a couple ae weeks,’ said Fat Franny. ‘When aw this shite blows, ah’d like you tae come tae.’ Even the phrase ‘work wi’ me’ rather than ‘work for me’, was strange to hear. ‘An’ here …’ Fat Franny handed Wullie the Painter an envelope. There were Polaroid photographs in it. ‘That’s them aw,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Franny,’ said the Painter. ‘Ah appreciate that, mate … and these!’ Wullie told his former boss he was fed up taking the scraps from Terry Connolly’s table, even though Strathclyde Police were supplementing his income.
‘Dinnae worry aboot that prick,’ said Fat Franny. ‘He’s jist a pawn, bein’ gied enough rope tae hang himself. When it aw blows, send his photies tae the tabloids, if ye want tae!’
Wullie laughed as Fat Franny told him that he’d sold the Ponderosie to Terry Conolly as a ‘cash up front, nae questions asked’ deal. Connolly had bragged that he’d picked it up for a quarter less than its market value. But Fat Franny hadn’t told Terry Connolly about the Planning Enforcement Order that would legally require the Ponderosie’s return to two separate semi-detached houses, or retrospective planning applications to secure permission for the way it was now. Neither option was going to be cheap or palatable for the new owner. And legal recourse was obviously out of the question.
Things were good for Fat Franny Duncan. Life was calmer and much less stressful. When he was a bit bored, and worried he might start to miss the old life, he just went for a walk on the beach with his pregnant fiancée and their dog, breathing fresh, clean sea air. Fat Franny Duncan had three new Blockbusters video shops. All had opened in the last three months and all were on the rise. Don McAllister had been spot on. Sales of VCRs were going through the roof. Fat Franny’s shop membership lists were growing faster than Thatcher’s unemployment numbers. There was clearly a corollary between the two that Fat Franny hadn’t initially appreciated. Still, here he was, fit and happy and living in Troon, out of the way of all the Onthank shite he previously thought he couldn’t live without. Life is strange indeed.
‘Thanks Franny. For everything, ah mean. Ah couldnae have afforded the service an’ aw the caterin’ an’ stuff. Ah’m really grateful, mate,’ said a tearful Des Brick. He had just spent ten minutes with the hospice nurses who’d cared for Effie in the last two weeks of her life.
‘It isnae me, ye need tae thank, Des,’ said Franny. ‘It’s yer sister. She sorted everythin’ oot. That’s the way she wanted it.’
45
July 198
4
Max Mojo and Grant Delgado stood outside the Radio Clyde building. They had nine copies of the ‘It’s a Miracle’ single between them. It now had a bracketed (Thank You) added to its title, just like (White Man) In Hammersmith Palais. They had brought ten with them, but Max had given one away to a woman he was convinced was Lulu. Despite her protests to the contrary – and the fact that she was serving tea in the Bluebird café – Max insisted she ‘jist gie it a listen. Play it tae Elton an’ the rest ae them.’
They had travelled the now well-trodden route north from Kilmarnock because Billy Sloan had been given a new earlier evening radio show in addition to his regular one. It was a two-hour programme reviewing the best of the week’s new singles, with Billy and his various celebrity guests from the world of popular music. This week – in what even Grant had to acknowledge was potentially serendipitous – Billy Sloan’s guest reviewer on ‘The Music Week’ was Boy George.
The Miraculous Vespas had only just completed recording the songs for the debut LP. Max hadn’t heard the recordings, but, regardless, he had decided the album would be called The Rise of the Miraculous Vespas. He’d had this title in mind from as far back as his period spent in Crosshouse Hospital two years ago. He’d regularly reflected back to those fevered days recently; to how much of an insufferable prick he was back then. He could still occasionally be as intolerant, definitely as tactless and foul-mouthed, but he felt far more in control of his emotions. He was being taken seriously now. After hearing ‘The First Picture’, Alan Horne had phoned him. He got into gigs free. He was automatically on the guest list of the main Glasgow bands whenever they played anywhere in Ayrshire. The band had also been featured in an ‘up and coming’ article in Melody Maker. There had even been a couple of messages taken by Molly, from a Morrison Hardwicke. He could fucking whistle, though. Max Mojo didn’t need the sanctimonius London-centric industry machine. Like Malcolm McLaren before him, he’d win on his own terms.
The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Page 24