by Frances Vick
I can’t think of a single band like them to come out of this country. I can’t think of a live experience like it. Chinaski don’t need the pyrotechnic gibberings of the Buttholes; the drunken aberrations of The Jesus Lizard, or the melancholic posturings of Nirvana.
Holy Christ and post modernist distance be damned, they are the finest live band I’ve ever seen. On ANY stage – be it the ponced up Paradiso or the murky Marquee – they have you stock still and breathing with them, they have you pounding your face and screaming with them. This is what rock music is meant to be about. It’s what we’ve been waiting for. If the Majors have any wit, they’ll snap them up. Oh! spare me your indie schlock horror. What did DCG do for Sonic Youth? It made you listen to them. They may work the same magic on Nirvana – who knows?
There may be some of you who just don’t get it. That means – though it pains me to say so – we can never be friends. Chinaski are the Second Coming of Rock. You heard it here. You’re welcome.
Freida squatted down with him and was scooping up the papers, arranging them on the desk. “Do you remember how excited we were about this?” She touched the article, “You remember? It felt like Chris was your guardian angel almost. And this – remember when you were all still here, all still friends?”
She was stroking a picture that a photographer friend of Carl’s had taken. That time when he decided that they should have themselves documented. What was his name? Sam? No. Sean. Following them around for days, cropping up in corners with his unctuous smile, doing anything Carl told him to do. Peter remembered this picture now. It had been taken in The Bristolian, Lydia was aiming a mock punch at Carl while Carl grinned. Peter was told to just sit still, John to look mean. It was a stupid photo, naive, badly staged, but it made him smile.
“They were so sweet, Carl and Lydia. They worked. Don’t you think? It worked. As soon as they split up, Carl began to drift away. It all went wrong for him. Did you speak to Lydia?”
Peter bristled. “Yes. I did. I called everyone.”
Freida, still preoccupied, murmured, “Well. That must have been awful for you too,” and immediately picked up the phone and dialled a number from memory. Peter heard it ringing on and on until she replaced the receiver.
“She must be out. Poor Lydia. She must have gone out to clear her head. We should call later. She must feel even worse than us. Yes! She must. She never gave up on him. Do you remember how scared he was? Nervous? Remember, at the beginning?”
12
At the beginning, after Carl had charged ahead and got studio time, things had stalled. Everyone had been so surprised that little Carl had a band, and that the band was good. Peter remembered Mason, the normally taciturn studio engineer, shouting through the intercom. “Fuck’s sake!” he’d laughed. “Who knew?” And no-one had known, except for Carl, how good he was. He’d taken their tentative, slightly generic demo and turned it into something cripplingly arresting. That splintered, roaring voice he became famous for rolled out of him in waves, his guitar strings had snapped under the battering, and again and again he’d screamed, flailed and wailed, years of carefully compressed aggression hitting the walls and tumbling onto the spinning tapes in the booth.
But after that, as soon as he’d been practically carried back to the office, he’d withdrawn. Peter remembered him sitting down suddenly on the floor, amidst all the congratulations, all the excitement, closing his eyes and shaking. Lydia had taken him away, and no-one saw him for days, except her. They spent all their time together at that point. Carl and Lydia, Lydia and Carl.
For weeks there was no sign that he would come back to the studio or formalise things with the label. Peter, having put off university for a year against the wishes of his parents, was running out of excuses to put it off for another. If they had a deal, then maybe he had a chance of proving to them that deferring was worth it. If they didn’t, and if Carl carried on like this, then the band would fold. He told Lydia as much, but he doubted if it got back to Carl. He was ill, she said. He couldn’t come to the phone. He needed space. And so they all waited about like fools until Lydia let him out to play again.
But was that fair? How much of the truth had been poisoned by how much Peter disliked her now? There was something genuinely vulnerable about Carl, then, no matter how he played on it. There was something crazed and unnerving about his performance in the booth, something sick. It was like watching a man in a padded cell trying to escape from his own skin. Perhaps Carl had been right to withdraw, to question if this was what he wanted. Look where it got him, after all.
When Carl surfaced after a week or so, he was in good spirits, quiet but determined. He had them rehearsing in Peter’s basement for ten days straight, and when he arrived at Deep Focus for the recording session he brought with him Dom Marshall, Sean, and Lydia – his support, his entourage. They ran through 15 tracks in 6 hours, and Carl kept his back to the band, keeping close to the wall. There hadn’t been any drinking – once Dom had opened up a can and Carl had told him to leave. There was no slacking. There wasn’t even much conversation. Peter had been so taken aback by Carl’s sudden work ethic, that he’d done whatever he was told to do, making only half-hearted attempts to be part of the process. Sometimes Carl and Lydia had hushed but urgent conversations, outside in the corridor, and then Carl would come back in with a slightly different instruction to give; but that happened very rarely. The darkness in the studio, the stuffiness, the way only three people at a time had room to stand at the mixing desk, the broken clock; it was a timeless, hermetic space. And each time, when Peter left, bone tired, stinking of cigarettes, he was surprised to see that it was still daylight. He and John would walk to The Bristolian for a well needed drink, leaving Carl in deep conversation with Mason, barely noticing them leaving.
There were three more sessions over the next two weeks, all funded by Freida and Ian, who hung around the studio waiting for crumbs of information from Mason, or the odd gnomic pronouncement from Dom. Everyone at Deep Focus knew that something big was happening. Phones went unanswered, mail wasn’t opened or posted and promotion of other bands was unofficially suspended. All eyes were on Chinaski, all hope was on Carl.
Carl was nervous. Carl wasn’t happy. Suddenly skittish, he’d begged Mason to keep the tapes hidden from everyone until they were done just right. Mason objected that there were too many tracks and not enough tape – they’d have to record over some of their earlier stuff soon if they carried on like this, but Carl went to Freida and she gave him carte blanche. Tape after tape was filled, as his earlier confidence crumbled. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure. There were two takes he liked but it’s not quite right – is it cymbal spill? And he made Mason put a blanket on the kick drum. He taped coins to the cymbals; he tuned all the guitars to D and then back again. He fiddled around the edges of work, driving people from indulgence to anger, until Mason had had enough, mixed eleven tracks to his own taste and handed them to Ian without telling anyone. Carl was furious, but Ian was ecstatic.
Six months later they were on tour in Europe.
It was sudden, it was all so sudden, Peter would tell journalists later on. It’s all been so quick. We’ve been so lucky, we’ve been so supported. The thought behind this, of course, was we don’t deserve this, we haven’t earned this, and eventually journalists got this impression as well, so Carl told him to stop saying it. But it was true. It was sudden, tremendously sudden. One minute he was fending off his parents about university, and the next he was in Maida Vale recording a Peel Session. It was ludicrous, especially when he looked around at all the other older, more seasoned bands he’d got to know and realised that Chinaski had already outstripped them, that he’d gone from being a middle-class school boy to one of the saviours of the scene in less than a year. He’d played the venues he only knew from peering at the gig listings at the back of Melody Maker. He’d appeared, briefly, in the video for their first single; just a flurry of arms and sweaty hair, really, Carl was in pretty much
every frame, but still. He’d been on TV, sitting in front of exposed brick, trying to exude quiet menace, while Carl was asked about their plans for the future. He had a pretty, socially awkward, girlfriend who did media studies and made Fimo jewellery in her spare time. He had quietly burnt all his rugby shirts. And Carl was serene, calm, happy. He drifted about town like a little prince – no self doubt here. He deserved it all, he’d earned every minute of it.
* * *
On the day they had to leave to get the ferry, Peter had the shits. All night he’d been up and down to the toilet, and by eight he could only expel empty air and foul smelling water. Having no idea what to take with him on tour, he rolled up five t-shirts, a copy of Naked Lunch, his address book, a sleeping bag, a toothbrush and some Imodium. After a hesitation, he then cut the legs off his second pair of jeans to make slightly indecent shorts. Once he’d wedged himself between the equipment in the van, and they were setting off, he realised that he’d forgotten to pack any underwear. John, a touring veteran, having followed New Model Army since he’d been in school, told him where he’d gone wrong. On the floor of the ferry terminal, they shook out the contents of their kit bags to compare. All John had was a Swiss Army Knife, three t-shirts, guitar strings and a huge tin of spray-on deodorant to freshen up the crotch of his one pair of jeans. It was a miracle of economy. Carl threw Naked Lunch over the side of the ferry as soon as they began to move.
Once the land slipped away, and they were left lonely in the freezing mist, each of them began to feel shy of the others. Carl dealt with it by playing pranks – the Naked Lunch funeral at sea, pretending to undo the ropes keeping the lifeboats secure. Peter wanted to get John onto some touring anecdotes, so he could learn what he was in for, but John maintained an industrious silence, packing and re-packing his bag, avoiding eye contact. He’d never been abroad before. He was worried that they’d take his knife away at customs.
Eventually Peter went down into the bowels of the boat, to search out their van and talk to Dougie, their weathered and surly driver. Dougie was the only one who knew where they were meant to be driving once they hit land. They all had a hastily photocopied list of venues and dates, but no real understanding of where they all were or how long it would take to get there. Huge swathes of Europe had to be driven over, and Dougie was already tired and pissed off about it. He didn’t like Carl, and he ignored John altogether. The only person he spoke to was Peter, and that was usually to make fun of him in some way, but Peter flattered himself that it was affectionate. Plus, Peter had been put forward by the other two to deal with him, so he had no choice really.
Dougie – like Dom – was an institution. Angry, taciturn and grimly amused by frailty, he was The Driver You Got On Tour, whether you wanted him or not. Dougie knew how to get to most of the minor venues in Europe, on that well trodden touring path all bands took at the beginning of their careers. He could probably find them blindfolded. This time, however, Deep Focus had thrown in a few new ones in Germany and France, and Dougie didn’t like novelty, Germany, or France. He had refused to speak to Ian for a month and even Freida – the only woman he had any respect for – had trouble getting a word out of him. By way of revenge, he’d reserved the right to play only his own tapes in the van, and given that he only liked Celtic Frost, it was going to be a long couple of months. Peter’s plan was to soften him up by keeping him in beer, expressing an interest in black metal, and, most importantly, keeping Carl away from him as much as possible. Dougie had once turned on him, and called him a gay little cunt. It was the only time he’d spoken to him or about him, and Carl, stung and scared, had wisely stayed away from him ever since. In the confines of a cramped Transit van though, that would prove impossible.
Peter approached the van, psyching himself up. Dougie might prefer him to the others, but he still didn’t like him very much. He heard the muffled sound of Celtic Frost, and when he slid the door open, a rolling mist of weed tumbled out. Dougie was air drumming. It was as embarrassing as walking in on someone wanking. With eyes screwed shut in hideous ecstasy, jaws locked in a rictus, and his hands stiff at the wrist, he flailed away at the steering wheel. He probably looked better when he was having a wank. Backing away. Peter ducked by the side of the van, using the guitar solo as cover for closing the door. He waited until the track had finished, heard Dougie cough and light up, before making his re-entry. Christ it stank in there already. Dougie didn’t believe in footwear, said it stopped the skin from breathing. He also didn’t believe in washing hair, because everyone knew that hair cleans itself after a week or so, or in deodorant, because it was a con. The combined assault of feet, sweat, weed and scalp scurf was brutal, and they’d only just left home. At least he didn’t have a policy against open windows, so at high speeds there might be a chance to fumigate the thing. But still. Christ. There was a beer can at his elbow. Was he pissed as well? Peter began to feel edgy about customs...and John had that fucking knife on him as well...
“You look troubled son,” Dougie was expansive.
“That Celtic Frost?”
“It was. It was. You could learn from them, son. And where are, fucking what’s their names, Mutt and Jeff?”
“Carl and John.”
“Them? The guitar heroes?”
“Oh upstairs. In the bar I think.”
“Best place for them. Might pass out. Then we won’t get Blondie moaning about the Frost.”
“Well, there are other bands. We’ve got a bag of tapes,” Peter risked.
“Well,” Dougie seemed amused, “you behave and I might let you. Keep Blondie on a leash and we’ll see. Until his keeper comes.”
“His what?”
“That posh bint. The one with the hair and the –” he shimmied his shoulders and widened his eyes –” fucking attitude. Her. Once she comes you’ll be begging to sit up front with me.”
“Lydia’s coming?” Peter felt cold.
“So they said. Freida said to make her welcome. She’s your tour manager, boy.”
“She’s our what? A tour...we don’t need a tour manager!” Peter’s voice shook. “What do we need a tour manager for? When’s she coming?” Suddenly, two months with only Dougie’s feet and Celtic Frost to worry about seemed like paradise.
“Dunno. Soon? Dunno. She’s his manager, really. Blondie’s. Not yours.” Dougie stuck Rizlas together in his complicated way, with his tongue slightly protruding, “Double fucking trouble.” He pulled the sticky buds apart and placed them fussily amongst the tobacco. “We’re going to have to stock up on this shit in Amsterdam, boy, I tell you. Else I’ll kill him and beat her to death with his corpse.” He shooed Peter away, turned up Celtic Frost again and leaned back with his cap over his eyes, the smoke drifting up over the peak.
When Peter got to the bar on the second deck, he had trouble pinning Carl down on what he knew about Lydia coming and how long he’d known it. There were smirks, evasion, sudden fits of exasperation, hints of anger, but eventually Peter found out that Lydia was due to meet them in either Holland or Germany, in a week or two weeks, or sometime into the tour. Carl refused to see why Lydia’s arrival should be a thing worth talking about, and that really got to Peter. It felt as if Carl was shoring himself up against him, protecting himself, hiring a body-guard. Also, why did Carl get to bring a girlfriend? Why couldn’t Peter have brought his? In fairness, Peter didn’t want to have his girlfriend on tour with him, but it was the principle of the thing.
Carl made it worse by insisting that Peter must have a crush on Lydia – that’s why he was so emotional about it, and what started as a convenient joke intended to get Peter off his back, quickly became a van-powered meme. Everywhere they went that first week, Carl made sure to tell someone, the person he judged to have the biggest mouth, that Peter wanted to fuck his girlfriend. It became part of the fabric of things: Peter loves Lydia. Even John, at first in on the joke, assimilated it as truth after a while, once taking Peter aside to lecture him on the futility of jealousy. “It
’ll eat you up from the inside mate. You don’t need it.” Maddeningly, every petty disagreement they had, and every legitimate point Peter made, was shot down by Carl, mock offended, claiming that Peter was only saying this because he wanted to fuck his girlfriend. Worst of all, the contagion, if not the humour, had spread as far as the front seat of the van: Dougie didn’t like him anymore. Celtic Frost grew louder and louder, and he didn’t share his tobacco.
Despite this, the fact of actually touring, speeding down flat motorways, margined by fields of unfamiliar crops, through alien suburbs, to a waiting club, was glamorous, tremendously exciting. Wedged in around their equipment, sharing beers, sharing stories, peering out of the back window, watching the foreign road laid straight behind them, they shared a sense of purpose, destiny.
They all, at one time or another, nearly got knocked down crossing the road because they were looking the wrong way. Buildings seemed impossibly grand – five stories, some of them, with dark bars and dank venues below. Sometimes the club would be locked when they arrived, and they’d open the back of the van and perch on their equipment, wiggling toes and testing sore limbs, the excitement growing. The weather was warm, sultry, and Carl got into the habit of leaping out onto the street the moment the van stopped, and changing his t-shirt, his fish white belly showing, shrugging his shoulders into it as he walked, confidently, to the club.
Sometimes there would be only five or six curious people in the audience. Once there was nobody but the bar staff. But soon there were more, fifteen, twenty, even fifty kids who were actually waiting for them. Waiting! Peter signed an autograph, and managed to spell his name wrong. But always, already, they asked for Carl. They all wanted him; Peter and John didn’t really count. A university student recorded an interview with them, posing all his questions to Carl. An earnest girl who ran a fanzine wanted to understand his religious faith, determined that he was either deeply religious, or a vehement atheist. One girl followed them around from the start, eventually turning up in Nijmegen with a shaved head and a Chinaski tattoo, fresh and swollen on one bony shoulder blade. Dougie said she looked like one of the Manson girls, and gave her misdirections to the next gig to get rid of her. Carl spent the next couple of days worried that she’d show up at a later date, a woman scorned, and stab him. That might well have been Dougie’s plan, but as it was they never saw her again.