Rotten in Denmark

by Jim Pollard

  At Cal’s funeral one guy dressed in hippie pelts and beads and a threadbare kaftan was striding around the graveyard with a skull and a Steve Hillage album proclaiming that punk rock was an offence against the pagan spirits and that this was the result. He called Cal’s death Thor’s revenge. Three skinheads, each in green Harringtons with a Go-Karts patch on the upper arm, left him bleeding behind a marble sarcophagus. It was this incident which prompted the Metropolitan Police’s first visit.

  At the time I would have preferred it if the skinheads had saved their energy for Tony Beale. He was skipping around the church and graveyard like an excitable child at a party talking to anyone who would listen. ‘Don’t worry,’ he was saying in a stage whisper ‘there’ll be a single out next week.’ I took him to one side, suggested that the time perhaps wasn’t right. Tony Beale laughed. ‘You punk rockers and your little middle-class sensibilities,’ he said. ‘And there was me thinking you wanted to change the world.’

  ‘And me thinking you just want to sell records.’ I could barely focus on him. I was tired. My eyes felt like they’d been punched closed.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Frankie,’ Tony croaked, trying a smile. ‘You’ll survive. The company will stick by you. You know how much we believe in your talent.’

  ‘Tony, now is not the time.’ I felt Wendy’s presence at my shoulder. ‘Someone you owe a lot to is lying in that hole in the ground. I think you should show some respect.’

  Tony looked from Wendy to me and back again, slowly registering our unity. ‘I owe him a lot?’ he scoffed. ‘Suck my seven inches, boys and girls. I think it’s the other way round.’

  As he went to walk past us, Wendy’s shaking hand leapt out and shoved him over a low-standing moss-ridden headstone. He crashed onto his back, his head landing in the dried crumbling stalks of what had once been a bouquet of flowers. He tried to slam his hands onto the grass to break his fall but he was too slow, too drunk. The cracked old vase that had contained the flowers toppled over on top of him.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Wendy simply.

  ‘You fucking bitch. Look at my suit. I’ll...’ He was red with rage, quaking so much he was unable to find his feet.

  ‘Don’t tell me, Tony,’ said Wendy. ‘You’ll see to it that Cal never works in this town again.’

  I started laughing. So did Wendy, her arm hugging my waist. So did Tony. Then, just as swiftly, he started crying. A kind of whimper like a struck dog. ‘Poor bastard,’ he said. I helped him to his feet and Tony Beale tried to brush the mud off himself.

  And with that I’m back with my father. I think of his hugs. He hugged me seven times after diagnosis. Real bear hugs not manly standoffs with a concern for social niceties. Holding on to me for dear life. But he wasn’t in his right mind, then was he? He hugged me seven times after his diagnosis and that made a total of eight times altogether. I think of his hugs and I try to find something inside but already my father is floating away like grey smoke.

  Wendy appears. She’s been with my mother. ‘She’s in surprisingly good spirits,’ she says.

  ‘What’s so surprising about it?’ I reply.

  Philip and Rebecca are handing out an order of service. They have on their Sunday best: white shirts and teeth. Philip’s hair has been introduced to a comb. I watch my daughter as she assists Auntie Anne. She helps without hurrying, talks and smiles without losing the necessary solemnity. My daughter is blossoming.

  ‘Do you think we can still call her Rebecca?’ I ask.

  Wendy looks puzzled.

  ‘Well, Rebecca’s awkward, isn’t she. In the Hitchcock film.’ I explain. ‘Plain.’

  Alexander and Faye Carter pull up in her Lexus. Wendy moves towards the car. ‘You’re thinking of the nameless narrator,’ my wife says over her shoulder. ‘And she only appears to be.’

  I watch as Alex emerges from the low slung upholstery, projects himself vertically, stretches for those extra inches. If only. Then I reckon he might fancy himself as a Laurence Olivier in Rebecca. He’s got that erectness and breeding, that steady voice and countenance, that moustache. A smile hovers like a sneeze. The women might fancy him as Larry too. They’re of that generation. I can’t see Mrs C as a Rebecca or nameless narrator. She’s certainly not a second wife type. She wouldn’t be second anything. But then she’s not the suicidal type either and nor was her son.

  They’re walking across the asphalt towards me. I owe them a lot, the Carters, from the early days. I know that. Yet I also know the sense in which Cal in the separation of death is relieved of them. Know it and now feel it. Mr Carter has a similar deceptively large presence to Cal - he’s taller, of course, but he’s still a short man. ‘Frank, my boy,’ he says, firm hand emerging from his Crombie. At his side, Siamese close, she’s got a fur for every occasion, Mrs C, this one’s black and as thick around the throat as a cancer. When she smiles I see much of Wendy in twenty years time and I remember how I stumbled over the Carter’s front step.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ I say. ‘Dad would have wanted it.’ The words tumble in an adult manner. There’s nothing the naked eye could detect but I am lying. I haven’t a clue what my father would have wanted. If pushed I would have to confess that, on the balance of evidence, he probably wouldn’t have wanted those ‘bloody snobs from up the hill’ at his funeral. But does it matter? He’s past caring. Funerals are for the living.

  And now I’m thinking about my own funeral. I’ve thought about it a lot since Cal’s. My will, my codicil to the one we drew up in The Go-Karts, lays down quite clearly what I want to happen: music, songs, speeches, Subbuteo tournament. But none of it will happen I realise if the living don’t want it to. The Carters have passed inside and Wendy is squeezing my hand. I am standing on the step and that realisation nearly blows me over. Once you are inside that box, you take it all with you: your grudges, your anger, your hopes and dreams, your secrets.

  I turn to Philip and call him son for the first time. Then I take him by the hand though he’s too old for it. ‘Won’t be long,’ I say to Wendy.

  They both look confused. There is an expanse of lawn where the ashes of the once living and loved are scattered between an avenue of trees. Pigeons feed. After the concrete the earth feels soft beneath my shoes. I feel as if I could slip into it easily. Six feet down, no problem. I am still leading Philip.

  We stop in the middle of the field. ‘How’s school?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  His hands, one pushing back his hair, the other threatening a fist, give a different answer. To avoid towering over him I get down on my haunches but that doesn’t really work either. Now he’s much taller than me. Wendy will want to brush his hair again.

  ‘You know you don’t have to stay there if you don’t want to.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He’s looking down on me. I notice that both our shoes are muddy.

  ‘I mean if you want to go to the College you can. If you want. We’ll pay.’

  Philip looks at me and there’s the vulnerability of the truth in his eyes. He knows I can let him down. ‘What about the waiting list?’

  ‘That’s... That’s been taken care of. Your mum...’ I laugh nervously. ‘She put you down when you were an egg, mate.’ I don’t know if the turbulence in my throat is because of my distaste for this subject or something closer to home. I cough, trying to clear it. ‘Look, you know some people there already don’t you, Jimmy and Mark?’

  ‘Jamie and Marcus.’ Philip turns away. ‘It’s... well, Dad, I know you don’t approve and maybe I don’t either, but I know it’ll help. I don’t want a free ride and if you don’t want a free ride you’ve got to maximise your opportunities.’ My son sounds more mature than I could ever imagine. ‘Thanks to your generation, Dad, it’s every man for himself.’

  ‘Do you...?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. I’m not as smart as Mum or Rebecca. And I, I haven’t g
ot a talent like you. I need that leg up.’

  ‘Then it’s yours.’

  We don’t quite know now how to react. My hand hovers as if to extend itself to shake but I know that’s not right. Then Philip hits me on the shoulder. A play punch. It’s not hard but I wobble on my heels.

  ‘Don’t say you’re not smart.’ I say, knowing it’s what I’ve said about myself for most of my life. ‘You’re saying how you feel. You’re being honest and believe me, that’s a real talent.’

  Philip gives a self-deprecatory shrug and a grin.

  ‘There’s a catch though, Philip. I’ve got to do something difficult now, myself. I’ve got to say something at your Grandad’s funeral. Look.’ I show him the pieces of paper. I’ve typed it up: every word. ‘Do you think you’d like? Do you want to help?’

  Philip smiles and nods. We walk back towards the crematorium holding my speech between us, deciding who is going to read what bit. Chatting like two actors enjoying the power and vulnerability of the method.

  ‘Come on, the vicar’s waiting,’ says Wendy trying to sound as if she’s not shouting. ‘There’s another one in twenty minutes.’

  As we enter the building, I put my hand on Philip’s shoulder. Just as we are about to speak something comes back to me from Cal’s funeral. Something amusing. I am standing in front of the congregation at my father’s funeral and I want to laugh. Amidst all the extravagances around Cal’s burial, the showbiz shit, I remember my old blue linen holdall, the one my Dad kept his tools in. I had filled it up with all sorts of stuff that had meant something to me and Cal down the years. When they lowered him down I lobbed it, still unzipped, into the grave on top of the coffin and as the mourners tossed on dirt and flowers, my future wife, standing vertical and still beside me, black, mournful, was whispering from the corner of her mouth, ‘Frank, was that a dead budgerigar in that bag?’

  At my father’s funeral I stand at the front biting my lip like a child.

  THE EFFORTLESS ASCENT

  Extracts from the galley proofs of The Go-Karts: The Warm-Up Laps which was originally scheduled for publication on our return from America. Somehow Cal got hold of a copy and he and I added our own inane comments and silly doodles. Following Cal’s death it was hastily rewritten with what Jonathan called a ‘Stalinist regard for accuracy’ and published on the day after Cal’s funeral as Cal Carter: The Crash Landing Of A Pop Star.

  They call it paying your dues. Most bands have been through it but then The Go Karts are not most bands. The Go-Karts third gig was at The Marquee Club, London’s top club venue. Other groups to have graced its stage include The Rolling Stones, The Who, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and The Jam.

  ‘It was actually our fourth gig if you count The Roebuck eighteen months earlier,’ says Frankie Dane, ever a stickler for accuracy. The Roebuck, fact fans, is the local pub in Beech Park, south east London from where the boys hail.

  The first two gigs (or the second and third if you prefer) were as support act at the now defunct Roxy, for which they received more press coverage than the headline group and then at the Fulham Greyhound after which they were signed to Phonodisc.

  Cal Carter who with Frankie writes all the group’s songs grabbed the headlines at The Roxy for throwing a tantrum at bass guitar player Jon Waters during an explosive twenty minute set. ‘But we’re great friends really,’ says Cal. Fans will be relieved to hear it. Such antics coupled with the band’s distinctive sound inevitably led to the Go-Karts being labelled a punk rock band. However, for the discerning listener, there was much more as Tony Beale, the man who pipped all of Britain’s other record labels from EMI to Polydor to sign them for Phonodisc, recalls.

  ‘There is a timeless quality about The Go-Karts music. I don’t have any worries about it going out of fashion. Once the new wave balloon bursts we’ll be left with the three, perhaps four, bands of true class. The Go-Karts will be one of them.’

  ‘At first there is no doubt that we benefitted from being called punks,’ says Frankie, ‘because it meant the punks all gave us a listen and a lot of them liked us but equally we’re not into spiritual straitjackets.’

  ‘We’re not really into any sorts of straitjackets, in fact,’ says Cal. ‘Except Charlie, of course. He’s quite fond of them.’

  Charlie Ball is the Go-Karts drummer and a man with a head for fashion. He took to the stage for the band’s first date in an American baseball cap and he’s been wearing them ever since. ‘I started wearing them back to front when people started taking our photos - the peaks used to cover my eyes half the time and you couldn’t see it was me,’ says Charlie, modesty ablaze. There’s a practical reason too. ‘They soak up the sweat better that way too.’

  The franchise on baseball caps is now one of the group’s most successful. Their copyrighted design is a familiar sight at their concerts but don’t try to count them, there are many too many.

  That first Roxy gig was witnessed by the New Rock Journal’s Ian Martyn-Baker. ‘It was just chance that I was there - you’re always on the look-out, hoping to break the next big thing, especially when you’re a young freelance trying to get a foot in the door. I’d gone to see the headliners because they were creating a bit of a stir on the circuit. In the event they were a bunch of no-hopers called appropriately enough The Unknown but by then, of course, it didn’t matter. I’d seen The Go-Karts. It was clear that they were something special. At first the kids spat on them like they did with most of the punk acts but then they stopped and listened. The music was so powerful.’ [Marginal note in Cal’s handwriting: absolute bollocks]

  Tony Beale takes up the story. ‘We’d heard there were going to be other labels at The Greyhound gig so we tried to put the scam on them. We put it round that we’d already signed them for a six figure advance. Very big money. More than EMI, A&M or Virgin had paid for The Sex Pistols. It had the opposite effect. Suddenly everybody wanted to be at The Greyhound - labels who hadn’t been interested before. The rumour was that even Brietkopf and Härtel were there and they’re classical publishers!’ [Marginal note in Cal’s handwriting: absolute bollocks squared]

  ‘We signed for Phonodisc because they guaranteed our artistic freedom,’ Cal says. ‘We choose what we record and when and what we release. Some labels seem more interested in coloured vinyl, twelve-inch remixes and other gimmicks. At Phonodisc it’s music first and marketing second.’ [Marginal note in Cal’s handwriting: absolute bollocks cubed]

  Within a week or two of signing and before they’d released a record, The Go-Karts were being featured on the front covers of the music papers. In all they’ve been on 14 front covers in less than a year. It’s a record few bands could match but that, of course, is the case with all The Go-Karts’ records in every sense of the word. In late summer 1978, the debut single ‘Rotten In Denmark’ came out and within three weeks it was at number one.

  This propelled The Go-Karts out of the London-based new wave scene and into the nation’s mainstream pop conciousness.

  ‘We started getting fan mail,’ Charlie says. ‘Mainly Cal. But even Jon got one. I didn’t get many but then I can’t read.’ He’s only joking, girls. You can still write to Charlie and all the Go-Karts at the address on page two. Jon, Cal and Frankie share a flat in south east London so the boys are sure to pass your letter around! ‘It means you don’t have to walk very far to share an idea or a can of beer or to go to a party,’ is Cal’s explanation of the living arrangements.

  The band embarked on a tour of the UK playing bigger venues than ever before and filling them comfortably even in less prestigious towns. The Top Rank in Reading, for example, said they could have sold every ticket three times over. ‘The manager at Reading told us it was madder than during Beatlemania and we were delighted, couldn’t believe it,’ says Frankie. ‘Then we discovered that The Beatles had never played Reading.’ Yes, folks, it’s yet another example of The Go-Karts eclipsing the fab four. [Ma
rginal note in Cal’s handwriting: absolute bollocks to the power of absolute bollocks]

  21

  We’d been to The Marquee again. Our place down the front. The rolling, leaping crowd which was already swelling and salivating like a many-headed beast surged into spasm as the band took the stage and began to play. Our legs were hard against the edge of the stage. My jeans were tearing, weals developing in my thighs.

  Cal, that much shorter, went to shout out but nothing came. I could almost see the air being squeezed from him. A hand flailed. One moment his chest seemed to be disappearing and then just as swiftly it was back - waist-coated, T-shirted, rising above the stage. Then his legs too. His little denim coated legs. Cal was growing before my wide eyes yet I was still towering over him. I looked around, twisting my neck further than it wanted to go. We were climbing like soft-pack cigarettes, magically rising up onto the stage. A roadie beckoned us into the wings. A couple of others, a hippie and his Henna-haired girlfriend, scurried in behind us - the roadie pointed to a vantage point behind the speaker stack. The crowd had literally lifted us. The surge of excitement.

  We were exhilarated by it all - the sprinting beat, the burn of the guitars, the leaping, twisting, crashing chaos of the dancing, the heat and the sweat and the emptiness just behind the eyes. The simplicity of it all. Something inside my soul was singing.

  After the gig we sat on the edge of the stage, wasted, and waiting for the club to thin out before we left. Our clothes were glued to us with so many pints of sweat and Cal emptied a plastic glass full of lager over his head. ‘Beer’s good for your hair,’ he panted.

  Between gasps, I grunted, ‘But the stuff they sell here’s water.’

  The laugh caught in Cal’s throat. A hippie and a punk were struggling towards the door, each leaning on the other. A skinhead couple, smoking, drinking and looking mean, held the door open for them. Someone made a joke and there was more laughter.