by Neil Rowland
I was checking her pupils. ‘Take some more deep breaths,’ I suggested.
‘Everybody’s listening. Picking up wrong notes.’
‘Punks don’t hear bum notes,’ I said. ‘Or if they do... they like ‘em!’
‘Judging me. Waiting for me to go wrong.’
Was she kidding? After Big Tits performance?
‘Oh no, Gina, we’re all on your side. We’re excited to see you... We want to win the record contract.’
‘Don’t put me on a stage. It’s all stress and pressure. I was happy in there. I don’t need this.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Is that you Bottle? What you doing here? Take your hands off me!’ she suggested.
‘But you’ll fall over,’ I objected.
‘Put me back!’
41. Paulie Takes an Early Bath
Gina and I staggered along the balcony, wrapped and tangled around each other. Even on that punk night we must have looked an interesting couple. I was a type of skinny beanpole and she was no waif. Then I propped her up into a plush seat and set about sobering her. To be honest I didn’t think it was possible, without a clinic or some revolutionary new treatment. And I couldn’t let her wander off again with the Dove of War ready to pounce.
Did Gina and rock ‘n’ roll really mix? Was that musical fusion anything other than a lethal cocktail?
If Sour Cat got into a music school and went on to become a professional musician, she’d need to face live audiences. Otherwise she would get nowhere in her profession; no more than a waiter afraid of busy restaurants, or an astronaut frightened of the dark. She had to beat those demons, one way or another (even her dad agreed on that). Going out to hear music on a Saturday night, or disco dancing with her mates, was a different type of musical appreciation. Maybe punk rock could still be the cure for her. That’s why I tried to get her up on the podium - and not to return her home.
Cat began to respond to my excitable, stuttering chatter. The world looked like Queen’s video of Bohemian Rhapsody through her eyes. We began to enthuse about Mortal and how exciting the music could be; the unique chemistry and adventure in the group. (Reluctantly we admitted) Stan was an amazing, gifted musician, probably the most charismatic performer we’d seen: even if he was number one awkward git. We agreed that his singing was shit though and we had to put a stop to that.
I recalled for her, the day when Snot - my spoiled introvert next door neighbour - came out into the street wearing that dustbin bag, with safety pin piercings. The punk scene had definitely moved on from those early days. The catwalks of the world were being influenced by then. Personally I still knew more about C&A than Sex. But we knew fashion was developing on the street. For the nation’s young generations, forming bands was more popular than masturbation.
Gina and I began to talk about what interested us most. My sculpture was neglected, after I left college. But it was not forgotten. I hadn’t thrown away my tools and chisels. I was eager to get back to it, when I got my hands on a decent block of stone - urban concrete wasn’t suitable, even considering Rauschenberg. You might point out that she was too smashed to discuss the arts. She knew more about creativity than I did; obviously more about music. Though I found she was a great listener. Not only when she was off her head.
At first her voice was slurry and faraway. Gradually she returned to reality, whatever ‘reality’ might be. Lucky we didn’t have to make another trip to the hospital.
In no hurry to return to the Mortal dressing room, she changed the topic:
‘What’s your opinion on John Travolta.? ...as Tony in Saturday Night Fever? Travolta’s got fantastic screen presence. He’s real punk and that’s obvious, Bottle. It’s a middle finger to the dollar sign. He’s got a great attitude, take my word for it. He’s dynamite that lad.’
It wasn’t exactly my scene. ‘I reckon that’s because you’re out boogie-ing... at the Hatter on Saturday nights,’ I said.
‘Don’t sneer Bottle, just because Travolta has a different hair style. Don’t be put off because it has, you know, disco music. Don’t you see my point?’ Her eyes went to the middle and did something weird.
I shrugged and vowed to see it. Mostly I was glad she was more lucid.
‘So if you didn’t see Fever... did you see Annie Hall? Oh, I loved that movie. Diane’s Keaton’s character... and the big hats and long narrow skirts. I wish I could wear some of those on stage tonight.’
‘For this gig? I’d like to see Snot’s face,’ I said.
‘It’s so fluid, punk fashion... the other girls would start copying me.’
‘Yeah, I can see that.’ Maybe she was pointing towards the abstraction of Cocteau Twins or even the drama of Kate Bush.
‘If I get into music college I’ll take up her style,’ she said. Until her face darkened with anxiety. ‘Assuming I get in to Leeds... which is a massive assumption. There are more auditions, you know.
‘Try to be more upbeat.’ Immediately I realised how stupid that was comment was.
‘You and Stan going to the 100 Club this weekend?’
‘Yeah... yeah, sure.’ I tried to sound in control.
Gina was a fully briefed fan of Patti Smith. Not only could she quote the songs and poems, she also referred to articles in American magazines, like Rolling Stone and Village Voice. Of course this was bound to impress me. Unfortunately, even if I shared her tastes and interests, I didn’t share her charm and good looks. If she was statuesque, I was like a gargoyle. Even worse, I stammered a bit and lacked confidence and experience. As soon as she sobered up - even around Christmas - she’d realise it.
***
A sustained rumble spilt from the auditorium. Gina and I sat together with our backs against the wall, so to speak, listening out. The noise originated from Betsy Dandie and the Screamers, with walls between us. We decided to return to the hall to catch the rest of her set. Obviously Les had instructed her to play heavy that night. It was a response to the judging panel’s make up - or lack of any make-up. The Texan rock impresario told his starlet to adjust her amps from beef up her usual harmonious power-pop style.
Anyway, Betsy and the Screamers were going at full tilt, everything at max. It was their bid for a recording contract and stardom. A mix of Cat Woman and Dolly Parton, there was no sign of stage fright. A natural performer, Betsy strutted, prowled and seduced the boys. The Baltimore bombshell shook her guitar in the air, as she boiled like rice-in-a-bag in that leather body suit. Betsy was the equal to any strutting macho male rock star.
The Screamers were newly outfitted (leather pants and flowery shirts) wearing wrap-around shades like the sons of Gram Parsons. As usual they were having a laugh, mugging to the crowd (while being note perfect) grinding out Betsy’s melodic numbers - hard rock with a power ballad to finish. The Screamers were obviously really going for it.
With a jolt, I knew they stood more than a bat out of hell’s chance. Screamers and Turbo, Screamers and Mortal, Gorran and Phoenix, Star Materials and Red Rooster, this was a clash of the titans. Two juggernauts placed bumper to bumper, smoking and snorting. There was more than just pride and an Austin Sunbeam at stake.
***
Meanwhile, as this was going on, Roy Smith and Viscous Kittens were trying to get Paulie out of his comfort blanket. After fleeing the venue, he’d surely had time to prepare himself - to eat some tea, wax his bongos and change. Despite big prizes on offer, with the chance for global pop stardom, something else must have turned up.
Considering it an emergency, Roy went out to a phone box. With a pile of ten pence pieces ready to feed (Smithy was actually employed) he put a call back to the Mansion (he could now afford a home phone on his tax office salary). The effort was met with extended ringing (a harsh tone, like an alien getting its tooth drilled) until after numerous attempts, finally, somebody pick
ed up. There was a delay, but the conversation went something like this:
‘Paulie, man? Is it you? Are you there, comrade?’
There came a bewildered response. ‘Roy? What’s up, mate?’ replied the cub reporter.
‘Away man, what are you doing?’
‘Phew, Roy, you sound worked up, mate.’
‘What’s the big idea, Paulie, runnin’ a-wee like that man? What got into you, comrade? What the fuck you gonna do, when the actual revolution comes around mind?’
‘What are you so wound up about now, Roy mate? You told me I oughta go home and get a bite to eat, before the gig started, didn’t you? So that’s what I’ve been doing.’
A noise of breathy irony and impatience filled Roy’s earpiece.
‘Away man, didn’t you nootice the tame, comrade? You’re expected back here to perform! What the hell are you doin’ man? Draggin’ your heeels, comrade, when yer grooop’s weetin’ far yer!’
‘Come on, Roy, what are you getting bloody agitated about?’
‘Paulie, wake up man, you’re needed back here mind!’ Smithy protested, beginning to steam up the call box.
‘Phoo, I’m not sure how that’s possible, Roy. Come off it, mate, you can’t expect me to be back there at the Civic Hall in five minutes. Be bloody reasonable, will you, Roy mate.’
‘Away Paulie man, I can’t stand here and listen to this rubbish!’
Another pause. ‘So what’s the big hassle this time? Do they want me to come down there... to hold their hands, or what is it?’
This attitude provoked Roy to apoplectic fury. Sealed within a telephone box along the high street, with Paulie stubbornly at home, The Smith was beside himself. ‘Ai man, this group a’yours been sittin’ aboot for ages, worried sick. Wanderin’ about the hall looking for you an all, comrade. Nawh Paulie, they can’t fuckin wait any longer, comrade. You’re scheduled to play next, man. We’re all hangin’ aboot the venue, comrade, wondering if you’re gonna shoo up!’
‘Come on, Roy mate, I already told you about that.’
Smithy almost choked with fury. Was there enough space to get to his inhaler in time? ‘Told me about what, comrade? What the fuck did you tell me aboot, Paulie man?’
‘I can’t just turn up and start singing now, mate.’
‘What the fuck are you doin’ mind, wastin’ yer time?’ Roy demanded, shaking and squeezing the receiver to death.
‘I told you, Roy mate. I got a lot on my plate at the moment.’
‘Away man, there’s hundreds of pee-ple in the hall, expecting ‘em begin their set, comrade. So get your fucking arse down here, quick as you fucking can, Paulie man!’
Paulie’s voice came back in a hush of shock. ‘Have a bit of common sense, will you, Roy mate?’ he appealed.
‘Away, you daft bast’ad. Just get a move on will you.’
‘Phoo, that’s really dodgy. You want to sort out that anger of yours, mate,’ Wellington suggested.
Hyper-ventilating, Roy rasped out some words. ‘Away man, don’t play the fucking buffoon t’night man!’
‘What’s the big hassle about this gig anyway?’ Sounding bored and distracted, the idol was clearly losing interest. ‘It’s only a local band competition,’ he chuckled. ‘I don’t see what their problem is. I’m not stopping them playing their gig, am I?’
‘What are you doing, comrade, at this moo-ment, that’s so fucking important... that you can’t keep yer promise to your band... to come and play with ‘em in the fucking final, like?’
‘What am I doing? At this very moment? You really want to know that Roy?’ he asked, with an ironic guffaw.
‘Ai man, what are you doing right now?!’
‘What do you think, Roy mate? It’s been a long bloody day in the office. I’m taking a bath.’
‘A bath?!’
‘Yeah, a relaxing bath... I’m enjoying a bloody soak in the bath. What’s your problem with that? After a bloody long day working at the office. I’m stood here with a towel round my waist, Roy... if you really want to know. I’m dripping on the bloody floor... while talking to you.’
‘What the fuck are you doing...taking a bath at this time, marra... when there’s a band comp’tition at the Civic Hall tonight? And yer grooop’s wonderin’ if they’re weestin’ their fuckin’ time mind and should pack it all in, comrade?’ he seethed.
Distorted noises of impatient amusement. ‘Come on, Roy mate, some of us have to work. Some of us need to take a bath, mate. What’s your problem with that, Roy mate?’
‘Ai Paulie, you wanna know what my problem is, man?’
‘Maybe you don’t ever take a bath, Roy,’ he commented.
‘Away Paulie, you idiot!’
‘I don’t need this gig, to be honest with you.’
‘You’re the vor-calist Paulie comrade! You can’t let them all down, man.’
‘Phoo, come on Roy, one man doesn’t make a bloody band!’
‘Away man, you’re the fuckin singer mind. You’re the lad who writes all the songs... if you can call ‘em fuckin’ songs... What d’ya expect them to do at this teem man, if you don’t shoo up? They’re all fully dependin’ on you, comrade!’
Smithy was wrestling for his inhaler, within the narrow confines of a public telephone box (piss filled and semi-vandalised).
‘Be bloody fair, Roy mate, will you? I never made the band a firm promise.’
Smithy made sounds of strangulation. The flex might have been wound around his neck.
‘I’ll see how I feel Roy mate... after I’ve had my bath. This isn’t going to stop the revolution, mate,’ Wellington commented.
‘What’s that, Paulie man?!’
‘The group know how to play my tunes,’ he argued. ‘Come on, Roy, I’ll join them later if I can. They’re not bloody helpless, mate. I’m not sure if I’m going to be free, to be honest with you, this evening,’ he admitted.
‘Away Paulie, don’t play the fucking buffoon mind. Get yourself out of that bath and back here, man!’
42. Kittens Play and Dildo Stiff
Meanwhile, back in the dressing room, or aimlessly searching the building, the Kittens were getting disillusioned with Babylon. They’d no zest to play another set of instrumentals, to bore the bondage pants off everybody. Without a singer of some type - even Paulie - they had fat chance of impressing the judges.
The girls killed time by adjusting costumes and rehearsing harmonies. The musicians, such as Dennis, Anna and Herb, were frantic by then, looking for the bongo-playing beat-poet genius front man. They didn’t understand that he’d probably found a new passion in life; which could have been anything, from market-gardening to tobogganing.
After all, even if the reporter was a ‘complete buffoon’ as The Smith would declare (at moments of crisis) the reporter was lead singer and songwriter. Roy didn’t realise that Paulie put the Trotskyite revolution at risk. It was a mistake to recruit Wellington because - by accident or a mishap - Paulie would ruin the whole insurrectionary event.
Dennis Macdonald couldn’t tolerate the situation with Wellington. There were minutes remaining, when Dennis rushed out and squeezed into seat of his beloved Fiat Panda.
Marty agreed generously to come to the Jamaican percussionist’s aid. He lobbied the judging panel to give Kittens extra breathing space. Starry wanted thinking time to compare notes and to agree on the rough scores so far. More than this he had a splitting headache which needed time-out. Betsy and the boys alone were enough hard rock for one evening. But there was plenty of deafening noise yet to come.
The thing was, Smithy handed Dennis his set of keys for the Mansion. It was to be an authorised break-in. Anyway that wouldn’t have put off the Caribbean style drummer. If he hadn’t been given those keys he would have kicked our door off its oxidised hin
ges. We didn’t want that because we already paid the ‘bast’ad exploitative, class traitor landlord’ enough rent money. It there was actual vandalism, we might have been evicted. And there was a shortage of affordable sub-standard accommodation, especially for a bunch of punks.
After letting himself in, stumbling around a dimly lit Mansion, Dennis picked out the super-sensitive warblings of Cat Stevens. These mellifluous strains came from the direction of our crummy bathroom, with sounds of plashing water. Paulie - resting up in the suds, reconsidering personal dreams and future ambitions - really was taking a bath. Apart from the thoughtfully romantic songwriting of Cat Stevens, issuing from a new tape-cassette machine, the cub reporter was completely alone. (He didn’t dare to take a bath with a girl because the door catch was broken).
Dennis shoved the door in, reached forward and peeled Paulie’s skinny arse away from the surface of the enamel, like a 2.99 sticker off a John Denver LP. Dennis lifted the cub reporter out of his (then) tepid bath, and stood him on a bathmat to drip dry. Normally the percussionist was a completely peaceful character. Not even a car-jacking by a bunch of Kingston gun runners, during a trip to his grandparents’ house, had ruffled him. The situation with Paulie was entirely different.
‘Phoo, Dennis, what you trying to achieve, mate?’
‘Mek yourself decent Paulie man. We’re off.’
‘What are you playing at here? Phoo, this is really out of order.’
‘Kittens got their big gig tonight... Di’n’ you remember man, or what’s hap’nin?’ the percussionist fumed.
‘This comes across as being a bit aggressive, Dennis mate,’ Paulie suggested. ‘I n I says there’s no hassle.’ He held eye-contract to avoid the truth that he was butt naked.
‘There’s our big gig down the ‘all tonight. The audience’s waitin for yer, Paulie man. Dincha remember? You’re the voc’list boy.’
‘All right, mate, I know about all that. No need to get heavy about it, is there.’