by Neil Rowland
‘M’be we’ll find them fascist bast’ads and gerrit back off ‘em, mind!’
‘I’m not sure if that magic guitar’s in one piece... even if we got time to negotiate,’ I remarked.
Then, afraid that Paulie would let down his Kittens, we went to have a warning word with him. Maybe he was already losing enthusiasm for punk music. That was likely because he was easily distracted from one cultural style to another. Paulie’s hairstyle had changed even more regularly than youth fashions. He’d sold his record collection several times in recent memory. That was a first warning sign. How to stop him selling-out his punk rock collection too?
We caught up with him.
‘Come on Roy mate. You can’t expect me to perform those songs on an empty stomach.’
‘What are you tawkin’ aboot, marra? Away Paulie, there’s a good Chinese takeaway just down the road,’ Smith suggested. ‘Just go there and buy something quick and ge’ back here, comrade.’
‘No, I can’t survive on take-aways, Roy.’
This was an ironic reference to the Trotskyite’s notoriously unhealthy diet. Boiled-in-the-can steak and kidney pies definitely had revolutionary effects on the lower orders.
‘Ai Paulie, get some fish ‘n’ chips in, man!’ he suggested. He was working his way through the entire SWP cookbook. Certainly fish ‘n’ chips always tasted best during an SWP camp at Skeggy - wrapped in back copies of the paper no doubt.
‘Come on, Roy mate, I’ve just got to pop home, to pick up my bongos and change clothes,’ the reporter said. ‘I’ll get a bite to eat at the Mansion, won’t I?’
The big hearted Trotskyite was struggling with his breath. ‘Away Paulie, so mek sure you’re back here at the Hall... in good time for the band contest, comrade.’
‘All right, Roy mate, what’re you getting excited about? I know all that. There’s no need to remind me.’ He watched his friend’s agitation with amusement.
‘Ai, just so long as you do, comrade. There’s no pint qualifying for the final, marra, if you don’t... if you doon’t take it seriously mind. You’ve already missed the sound check!’ Smith reminded him, starting to fume.
‘Okay, Roy, what are you upset about? I can join them later on, mate, when it all gets going. They can’t do without me, Roy.’
‘Away, Paulie, is that the case, mind? Just mek sure you get yourself back on time, or them Kittens is gonna kick yar arse. Don’t say I haven’t warned you, comrade!’
‘Phew, that’s really dodgy, Roy mate,’ he puffed. ‘That came over as a bit bloody aggressive... if I’m being honest with you.’
Roy was trying to knock some sense that wasn’t there, like trying to put in a brick after the house has been built.
‘Come on, Roy mate, get off my bloody back, will you?’
‘Off your back, man? This is the final Paulie, so no second chances, comrade.’
‘Don’t hassle me, Roy. You think I’d let my own band down?’
‘Ai, I do. That’s exactly what I’m thinking, man.’
‘All right, so I’m just going home to get a quick bite to eat... pick up my bongos... and I’ll be back here in a bloody flash, Roy mate,’ he pledged.
‘Away Paulie, make sure you don’t have any dis’ractions.’
Rarely, if only to avoid Roy’s criticisms, the reporter turned his attention to me. ‘So you think I can win tonight, Bottle?’
I backed up Roy. ‘They have no chance if you don’t turn up.’
‘That’s what I thought. This group of mine’s roots and radical,’ Paulie play-acted. ‘Crucial! We’ve got this peace and love vibe going on.’
‘Paulie, don’t be such a buff-oon man! Just get hoom an’ pick up those bongos!’
***
Mick Dove was in the foyer with Dildo band-mates and supporters. These lads gave us a look of hatred as instant as powdered potato. Hatred was the drug they were thinking of. But, with my background, I wasn’t afraid of Dove’s fists, or any other part of him. Typically his type relied on dark nights, the element of surprise and greater numbers.
He hissed at me. ‘What the fuck you doing here, Bottle? Didn’t you get our writing on the wall?’
You had to strain your ears to get his sinister voice.
‘Completely lost on me, that was,’ I told him.
‘You can’t read?’
‘Away, you fascist bast’ads, Bottle’s here to review all the groops tonight. Ai, he’s a regular cont-rib-utor to Music Mail mind... one of the biggest sellin weekly music peepers.’
Even Roy had swallowed Gorran’s tide of hype about my rock writing.
‘No sweat Roy, I’ll settle this one,’ I said. As if they hadn’t spoiled my funny looks.
Anyway Dove wasn’t impressed. As yet there were only a few people around the foyer; waiters stocking up the bars, students unstacking chairs, a few roadies taking early refreshments, council officials and probably the EMI A&R man. I couldn’t pick out Starry - I didn’t have the Mortal manager’s instincts.
‘Mortal needs to retire,’ Dove scoffed.
‘They’re not leaving this building without a record contract,’ I said.
‘Fuck off home, commie wankers.’
‘Phew, did you hear what he just said to us, Roy. Phew, that was really dodgy,’ the cub reporter observed.
‘Ai, well said comrade. These Nazi lads have no place upsettin’ the working class in these late capitalist times,’ Roy reposted.
‘Get back to Mexico, Trotsky,’ Dove told him.
‘This isn’t one of your Hitler youth rallies,’ I said.
‘Watch your mouth, you geeky faced wanker.’
Paulie stared in open-mouthed astonishment at this abuse from real-life fascists.
‘I’m almost scared,’ I bragged.
‘You don’t understand youth music,’ Dove argued - adenoidal, through his teeth. ‘You don’t get Steel Dildo.’
‘I get you.’ They wouldn’t be featuring in Smash Hits this side of the beer hall putsch.
Dove further narrowed his eyes at me. ‘You don’t understand the music of the native people,’ he argued.
‘You don’t intimidate us,’ I insisted - though his mates were having a very good try.
‘Away man, cos the working class’s gonna start the fight back... the fight back against the fascist scum,’ Roy began to rage. ‘We’re gonna take back the streets, until our communities are safe mind. Seef for all races and creeds in a post capitalist sorci-ety!’ At the end of his breath, Roy was beginning to spit - like a police water cannon threatening to turn on.
‘Fuck off Trot.’
‘Away, cos all yas fascists do is exploit the demoralisation of the working class... faced with mass unemployment... the lack of a real socialist alternative in this cun-ree mind,’ he spluttered. Roy was pumping himself up towards an SWP clenched fist.
‘Who’s this little Trot, Mick?’ wondered the Dildo drummer. This sidekick was a lad off the Tech college metalwork course; a beefy skin with huge red ears, in a ‘patriotic’ tee and regulation steam-pressed drainpipes. Smithy was changed into his Marxist slogan tee and heroically ripped and scuffed jeans. He’d shrugged out of the Inland Revenue gear.
‘Don’t you get our youth policy?’ Dove hissed.
‘Your policy isn’t working on us,’ I said.
‘Native youth’s waking up. They don’t want the agenda of socialist punks.’
Frozen with shock, expelling air, Paulie said, ‘Phew, that’s really dodgy!’
‘Ai, Paulie marra, doon’t worry man. It’s dis-gustin’ propa-ganda. I heard exac-ly what he said. Fascist scum, take your fucking Nazi shite back down the sewer... where it belongs, will yer!’
‘Native youth doesn’t want commie crap,’ Dove informed us.
There were at least a dozen of this scum fronting up. In my view you had to choose your battles. Otherwise our bruises would get bruises.
‘We ain’t going to tolerate lefty bands,’ Dove smirked.
‘Did you hear what he just said, Roy? It’s really dodgy stuff, isn’t it.’
Dove finally turned his attention to the distraught cub reporter. ‘Who asked your view? You’re that idiot... with all those girls hanging off you,’ he mocked. Another of the ‘Jealous Minds’.
‘Phew, I reckon this lad’s really sexist as well... really dodgy in his political views, Roy mate.’ Pinking, Paulie made a disapproving noise and flipped his eyes up in horror.
‘An’ that fucking awful reggae noise! Grass skirts and coc’anuts.’
There was startlingly loose and unrestrained laughter. ‘Where’s your dress tonight, Paulie?’ wondered the Dildo drummer.
‘Phew, that’s really out of order, mate. You can’t say that kind of stuff. It’s really sexist.’
‘Ai, there’s no place in this coun’ry for right-wing idiots, Dove man,’ Roy fulminated.
‘You fucking Trots,’ Dove snarled, raising his fist towards us.
The very next moment, without warning, Paulie shot out of the venue. He fled through the revolving doors. In a split-second he had vanished. There was barely a single frame ‘after image’. He was off into the high-street. This was not to show solidarity with the working class and to fight the young Nazis. No, it was to hide out in the shopping centre.
Wellington was gone; as if he’d identified a long lost identical twin unexpectedly flown back to the UK from Australia, after a tragic separation at birth. I only got the most fleeting glimpse of the flaps of his jacket. For a few seconds the revolving doors were still turning, without any occupant.
‘Tell Snot and his band that the gig is off,’ Dove was saying.
‘Mortal won’t listen to any threats,’ I said.
‘British youth are sick of socialists.’
‘You want another kickin’?’ their drummer asked.
‘May the best punks win,’ I suggested. I was beginning to stammer. That happened. It made me sound frightened. Which I wasn’t. Anyway, I wasn’t frightened of Dove. Thermo-nuclear war maybe. The scrapheap, certainly.
The NF boys shifted on steel-capped boots.
‘Away man, any more fightin’ and intimidation... the socialist movement’ll be weetin to fight you during tonight’s gig,’ Roy warned.
‘Make it a date, Trot.’
‘Stan wants his guitar back,’ I said. ‘That’s right, don’t be surprised... I know you nicked it from their dressing room... That’s a special guitar. His uncle gave it to him.’
‘What guitar?’ Dove jeered.
‘Not anybody can play that instrument. Be warned. It could fight back, if you plug it in.’
‘What you talking about? Shit, Bottle.’
‘Give it back!’
‘Fuck off. I’ve got my guitar.’
‘Away man, that doesn’t belong to you... you fascist bas’tad.’
Dove scoffed. ‘So property isn’t theft any more, Trot?’
‘Stan needs his guitar back.’
‘Let the British people judge.’
‘Another fool, Roy. He doesn’t get it. Stan’s the only lad who can handle that guitar,’ I warned again.
‘What’s so fucking special about it? Just a bit of wood with metal strings, isn’t it.’
‘Away Bottle, what’s happened to our Paulie mind?’ Roy exclaimed, looking desperately from side to side.
38. Teenage Lobotomy
At last the doors of the Civic Hall were unlocked. The kids with advance tickets rushed inside, while the others formed a rough rowdy queue around the ticket office, looking for returns.
Early comers were in a hurry to get their drinks and to find the best places stage front. Downstairs was standing and upstairs was seated. The only snag was with getting there early was to endure a welcome speech from Councillor Stanley Fairbright. The politician made a direct grab at the town’s youth vote, in preparation for upcoming council elections. As I said, in approving a music competition the council expected a local version of New Faces. They didn’t understand the popular forces being unleashed. After so much hot air Fairbright had the task of deciding the running order. He tossed all the band names into a top-hat and drew each one out in turn. Mortal was announced last of all. We discussed if that would be an advantage or not. The biggest danger was offering them more time to fall out, against the clear positive.
Marty didn’t believe that playing last was good. He felt that the judges’ opinion would be clouded by alcohol and violence by then. Immediately he lodged an official appeal. This was on the grounds that S&M groups should not have to compete one after the other. Here was an independent pop entrepreneur (Gorran) up against the rock establishment (Starry). Marty was determined to make his presence known; he burnt more calories than an Olympic pentathlete. He succeeded in completely antagonising the members of the panel. The punk king let his passion get the better of him this time. He pushed his claim and raised the stakes by demanding a longer interval between sets. Apparently these tactics had some impact, as all the judges were sick of his malleable mug. They definitely got his number and marked his card, for good or bad.
The punk MC had some joy because Turbo Overdrive was moved to second slot. Unfortunately the judges wouldn’t relent over Mortal. Snot and the lads would have to play the punks home. Viscous Kittens were allotted fifth, which gave more time for Paulie to get his act together. The other Kittens began to cross their fingers, that their star was aligned. But it was all in the lap of the gods.
The group to open up the Battle of the Bands was Amyl Exciters. We S&M punks didn’t get much advance notice about their sound or style. This outfit was hard to ignore, as they swept into the venue with a posse of family, friends and supporters. We nervously eyed their confident progress, while noticing they’d brought a big following. They radiated an arrogant stars’ attitude to the whole event, with plenty of attitude. This made the Nulton punks bristle. The band had settled into one of the venue’s best dressing rooms too.
Marty got twitchy at mention of Amyl Exciters, because he’d caught them in a semi-final. They were the only group to turn me down for an interview. Being enigmatic was one of their tactics. It was true that we didn’t know much about them. Marty said they had played gigs in Manchester and Newcastle, followed by a small review in NME (generally positive, apart from insults about their hair styles). Nulton’s punk eminence de grise was in a mental flap, trying to work out some advance spoilers. He said they’d been out clubbing with Tony Wilson. Marty would do everything possible for his acts, but at television stations he still couldn’t get past reception.
The band’s stage line-up was unusual: three members stood behind a synthesiser each, a Minimoog and Fairlights; the fourth operating a Linn drum machine and electronic percussion; producing a swirl of electronic, ‘artificial’ melodies, SFX and beats. Presumably they were influenced by early Kraftwerk - as it was - and other ‘kraut rock’ bands and electronica sounds. Beach Boys’ style ‘barber shop’ harmonies were overlaid. You’d describe their sound as ‘avant pop’ before its time.
From the opening riff their entourage offered noisy appreciation. And you could feel the Exciters’ fan club steadily growing. They played a short set of three songs - as allowed by the contest rules - and it was fifteen minutes of high tension for Marty; and for Les Phoenix. It was a future-looking accessible sound. The shock waves of their set definitely spread to other bands.
Don’t go thinking this group was early Roxy (while Eno was still a member) or Berlin period Bowie. It was more Planet Earth than Space Oddity, mixing dance-styles, even
disco, with heavy rock. They were blonde-rinsed muggers in zip-up jumpsuits. Harmonising such banalities as:
Pony Girl! Pony Girl!
You join the shopping world
Look phony girl, phony girl!
Red boots high
Communication to hire
Ignorant desire
Total bollocks, as Snot argued. Marty had seen Amyl play the Green Man and admitted that they’d improved - new sounds, songs and ideas. You might think he’d want to sign them. Especially while he was shaking in his pixie boots, worried that they could win. Sometimes he could be enthusiastic about gimmicky sounds, if he thought these were clever. For him a gimmick had to accompany good music. Marty had to be impressed by songs and sounds, and he wasn’t delighted by Amyl Exciters. He wouldn’t compromise or sell out on his tastes and judgements. And I don’t reckon he was far wrong.
‘Gord elp us Bottle, what kind of rinky dink bullshit sound is this?’
‘They’re definitely a bit superficial,’ I agreed.
The advantage of playing first was to catch the judges sober, the disadvantage was to play to a half-full auditorium.
Even so the Exciters got a positive reaction. As the town’s celebrity rock hack I couldn’t write them off. Maybe they were a bit like Depeche Mode, a few years in advance. They were not as sharp and hooky as the Basildon lads. The washing bank of electronic chords anticipated Tubeway Army and Gary Numan (without the glum look).
Beautiful robots
Sex crazed despots
Shoot down imposters
Hard shiny lusters (lustres?)
Gorran was visibly relieved when they left (in fact everything Marty did was ‘visible’). And he closed his ears to the cheers and calls for an encore. Luckily encores were not part of the rules either.
I cast my eyes along the judges. Disturbingly the EMI A&R man looked perky. Starry had roused himself, surprised by the first act, and waking up to potential talent in this hick town. There he was offering his views to his fellow judges. Even the normally wary Morton Treble, the Record Shack owner, was stirred to nod back. All the same, on the basis of his extensive punk record section, Morton wouldn’t place Amyl at the top. I was confident he wouldn’t even offer them free record tokens.