by Neil Rowland
‘Heavy?’
‘Yes, mate, heavy... cos I haven’t forgotten about the gig... You can let me rinse off this bloody shampoo, can’t you?’ he protested.
‘Not this moment, Paulie man!’
‘I was just gonna finish my bath, mate. I was just waiting for this song to finish. After that I was off to join you. What’s your big problem with finding some inspiration, Dennis mate?’
There wasn’t even time to pull out the plug, or to turn off his tape cassette. Wellington was lead outside, still wearing that towelling bathrobe. The drummer pushed his head down into the Panda’s passenger seat - as if he was under arrest. The lead Kitten was whisked back to the venue. Somehow he managed to grab his bongos on the way. The car shot back to the Civic Hall like a peanut gone the wrong way.
***
Soon rumours circulated that Paulie was at the venue. Jez Starry’s paracetamols took effect and his fellow judges settled back for more rock chicks. The judges’ glasses were refreshed when Viscous Kittens skipped out on stage. The crowd surged, grateful to get some music.
Herb started off the set with a pumping bass line. Soon Anna-kissed exercised her ham fist and Fiona was bashing a tambourine like Linda McCartney. The five Twinkle Sisters (Paulie changed their names again) flounced out in the druidical stage costumes. They stood around a shared mic. to close harmonise, along with eye catching dance routines, which had been rehearsed in bedrooms for weeks.
I’d read in back issues of Blues & Roots magazine about space and echo in dub treated reggae. Theory was put into practice, as Dennis gave the Kittens’ sound mind-expanding rhythmic shape and momentum. The group had an awesome British-style reggae sound, thanks to Herb and him. Really it was Anna who gave the punk element, with her beginner’s efforts. However smoothly or sweetly this came over, her garage-rock type of guitar style was jagged and discordant. For once she’d found her place in the band and looked more comfortable. They were a tight unit making an exciting and unique soundscape, using roots, dub and lovers’ rock styles.
In a terrifying blink Paulie wafted out to join them. There he was suddenly at stage front, twirling his robe, prancing and cavorting. Still sticky with unrinsed shampoo his silky curls were stuck up. He made a grab at the mic. and, pushing it under his button nose, began those peculiar muffled vocals. As I said, it sounded like a dirty phone call.
He performed to a hall packed out with various youth cults, while attired in the red towelling robe of course. Fortunately anything went during the punk period. For the punk crowd a bathroom garment was disconcerting - even weirder than X Ray Specs plastic costumes or Devo’s plant pots on their heads. Amidst the violence and mayhem of punk, there was a sharp sense of humour. This saved the cub reporter from a musical lynching. I don’t know what Starry made of this. At least the show wasn’t as dull or as hopeless as he’d feared on the fast train.
Kittens played their best gig yet. Deep Jamaican sounds shook the hall, as if the Caribbean Sea itself was breaking around our boots. The group’s British flavoured reggae mix was irresistible for dancing and swaying. The sound even predated the Ska revival, on labels such as Two Tone and Go Feet!: vibrant, brash, cynical, cool and political, as well as racially relaxed.
But however good Viscous Kittens sound was, nothing could disguise the cub reporter’s gob smacking lyrics:
Walkin’ down the mean streets
What do you see?
Cool Rasta dance man
Looks real sad like me
Walkin’ down the mean streets
Shufflin’ my little feet
The socialists n Indians
Facin’ the same defeats
Walking down the mean streets
Strangled by suit n tie
I don’t wanna work for the press boys
Man, I’d rather fucking die
Walk down those mean streets
Old ladies look so disappointed
Don’t see any peace n harmony here, man
So what’s the fucking point, mate?
If the audience could overlook the lyrics, they could lose themselves in the music. Viscous Kittens were taking us half way to Zion. All those rehearsal hours at Crock Sound paid off big time. Up to this point I was rooting for ‘em. Herb and Dennis were Nulton’s answer to Sly ‘n’ Robbie.
With such a great sound behind him Paulie stood a chance of winning. The Mortal posse began to discuss the horrible idea of a Wellington triumph. Even as we skanked to the poly-rhythms, we were getting nervous. There was the horror of Wellington gaining a fat recording contract; and projected to international pop fame, reinventing himself as the Peter Frampton of reggae tinged punk. Stan swore he’d never play the guitar again, if that happened.
***
The auditorium gradually settled, while the judges conferred.
Steel Dildo was next up. Despite their hard boy right-wing political message the group looked very nervous. Along with every other act, they understood that this was their one big chance. The stress of a big gig almost got the best of them.
Mick’s hand was visibly shaking as he adjusted knobs on his amp. He must have noticed there were black, Asian and other faces in the audience that evening. How would that section of the audience react to him? Even if Dove didn’t want to hide his message, he knew that it jeopardised his triumph of the will.
A hushed dread seemed to fall in the hall, as the Dildo guitarist and bassist attempted a tune up, now strutting and staring towards the floor as if they’d lost money.
Dildo was horned into nutcracker denims to a man - needlessly held up by pairs of braces. The beefy drummer wore a St. George’s Cross tee-shirt with a swastika at the centre. Typically they’d stolen the Union flag, which was draped in front of his bass drum.
Dove and his mates took time-out to confront the hecklers, the spitters and projectile throwers. That didn’t necessarily signify hostility, because it was part of the punk ritual. Already I heard Smithy and his SWP mates shouting rival slogans and threats, in the direction of the stage (you can guess the epithets).
‘This’s for patriotic youth!’ Dove called out, pacing around. The only way to conquer his nerves was to begin to play.
Fights broke out at the first chord; terrifying whirlpools in the calmer sea of faces. Crock Security Officers jumped back in to join the fun.
Only, despite the shocking levels of violence, during Dildo’s set (that battle had been planned) it was too late for the organisers to stop the competition.
The Dove of War was pogo-ing and throwing himself about the stage, like a V2 rocket. The band made a hard-core punk racket, which attacked your hair roots. Such youthful fury and frustration was the pure fuel of rock. They could have become a sharp three-piece, if they’d morphed into a Mod group. But they had no wish to become a local version of The Jam or even Secret Affair, under the influence of the Who and the Faces.
Despite such spiky adrenaline, I couldn’t leave their politics aside. I generally kept to the back of the hall, getting that slimy sensation again, while trying to keep my reporter’s notepad dry.
Jez Starry would never award Steel Dildo top gong. Snot pretended to savour the level of aggression. He claimed that this was all punk to him. Outrage, provocation, violence and hate - it was manna from hell. Snot refused to take anything in punk rock personally or too seriously; even when Dove targeted him and after the NF boys beat us up. Snot’s attitude was shaken by the loss of his guitar.
He could still argue, ‘Dildo are really nasty, see? No fucking sham with them. A lot of bands only fake it.’
‘Found what you’re looking for?’ I snapped.
Snot’s approval - albeit from a cynically safe distance - didn’t convince. Marty was even more appalled by the spectacle.
‘Gord elp us Bottle, what we got here? No bullshi
t, how do these little fucking Hitler herberts impress this lot of bloomin cauliflower eared judges? Fair play, how did such a bunch of stiff armed tossers get so far in the bloomin competition?’
Snot’s anarchic admiration was quickly strangled off, as he noticed that Dove was posturing with Uncle Luigi’s guitar. Dove had stolen it, as suspected, despite right wing protests. To think that this wonderful guitar had been handled by Elvis Presley and James Burton. What a miserable end it faced.
‘I can’t play no more,’ Stan decided. ‘Fucking never.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ I replied.
Neo-Nazis were pogo-ing and moshing in front, and others continuing to fight with the left wing punks. Snot and I couldn’t do much, except to observe in a depressed condition.
Like many a lad starting a band, Dove was self-taught and lacked technique. Strings didn’t easily break on uncle Luigi’s singular guitar, despite cack-handed treatment. In this way the strings of Luigi’s magic guitar felt sharp and hot to Dove. Hotter and sharper, the harder he attacked.
Dove stopped for a while, trying to figure it out. He reached into the back pocket of his bum squeak jeans, to pull out a plectrum. Maybe that would fucking work. He thought it would protect his fingers. But the plectrum didn’t give him any more joy. So he tossed it away in anger and decided to use his fingers again. It wasn’t exactly strumming or picking. And this time he suffered a kick back from the strings - a shock.
Snot and I looked at each other in amazement. What in hell was going on here?
Pausing again, widening his stance, in a stronger posture, Dove slashed down. Mick was thrown backwards across the stage. He was off his soles, in a flash of light and smoke. And he landed with a thud on his spine.
Groggy, blinking in amazement, Dove crawled back to his knees, pushed himself up. There was going to be no surrender - no sell out. However, the vocals had stopped. The other two had to clump along, without him. Maybe if you were in a prog rock band, that wouldn’t be noticeable. When shouting out a two minute punk song, it left a gap.
‘What the fuck is he up to? With my guitar?’ Snot objected.
‘What the fuck is your guitar up to with him?’
It was a spectacular thing to witness. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The crowd cheered, assuming these antics were part of the act. The judges were exchanging looks. Morton Treble was like a field mouse who’d seen a combine harvester trundling towards him.
Shaken, not deterred, Mick persevered. He tried to pick up the lyrics - a typically ugly rant. So eventually his hand makes contact with the strings of Luigi’s guitar. With an alarming bang and flash, including a puff of smoke from an amp, Dove is jolted and tossed into the air once again. Wow. This was the most dramatic pogo of the punk era. Dove thudded down on the boards in a heap.
Only bass and drums continue, as he just lays there, crumpled, baffled, and badly winded. The guitar meanwhile has fallen free and looks undamaged. That guitar seemed to have a bigger ego than the musicians. Fans were whooping, thinking what a brilliant show. Only Dove, entirely stunned, really felt it.
The members of Dildo begin to glare at each other. In a crisis they turned accusingly on each other. They suspected each other of being the traitor - or saboteur. Dove groped for the mic. and, wobbly, confused, climbed back on to his boots. If he was shaky at the beginning, it was nothing on this. The band was going to make one more attempt to finish off their set.
Bass and drums kick in. They find their place in the song. They attack the chord with increased tempo. The performance is roughly back to normal. When Dove brings his fingers on strings, a burst of sparks shoots out from the neck of the guitar. With a blinding flash, dazzling the mosh pit for a few seconds, there is a further explosion, which ricochets into the dark atmosphere of the hall. This is more dramatic than the annual military show by the Territorials.
There are screams and signs of panic among the crowd. There is a pause in the mêlée of pogo-ing and fist fights. Some people try to scram, risking a stampede, thinking the whole place could go up. We can smell charcoal and sulphur, as smoke drifts across the hall.
The Dildo drummer and bassist abandon their leader. Dove refuses to admit defeat. There’s no music now, just the leader’s strangled vocals and painful shards of combatant guitar.
Mick Dove’s red white and blue Mohican cut - which had attempted to set trends in fascist fashion - bursts into flames. Mick begins to scream and leap in panic. At last, in a desperate attempt to save himself, he tosses Uncle Luigi’s guitar aside. He can’t play that special guitar, which is fighting him so hard. So the instrument lifts, rises and floats and glides up into the rafters. Sparkling and spangling, the magical instrument comes down again to rest in Stan’s hands.
This was amazing to witness and something you could not invent. Snot and his magic guitar were reunited.
The Civic Hall’s head caretaker wandered out on stage. He was carrying a slopping bucket of water and poured it all over Mick’s head. This seemed to douse the flames okay. Dove’s ‘patriotic’ Mohican was reduced to a smouldering and charred stump.
Another ambulance was called. The NHS was free at the point of delivery. The organising councillors got into a huddle. Should the Battle be cancelled? They decided against it, fearing an even bigger riot that might spill out on to the high street and (worse) into the media. They knew there was an election in the air. There were prizes left to hand out and Jez Starry required his fee.
Roadies rushed on stage to prepare for the next band. Technicians had to repair equipment. Everyone in the hall needed to get their breath back. There was a bit of a delay as this went on. Lucky the event wasn’t cancelled, in my critical view. Battle was to be resumed. Thank god for that.
43. Mortal Gets a Date
Ireturned to the Mortal dressing room for the latest scandal. The band had sent away family, friends and all hangers on (apart from me) trying to psyche itself up for the huge gig.
Fenton and Urine had the job of minding Gina for a while. She was sat about looking jittery and peaky, adjusting the guitar, having reapplied cosmetics and adjusted the stage outfit. Sour Cat didn’t have her usual zip but she was on the mend. The Mortal manager was told that his starlet, in time-worn stereotypical rock style, had almost crashed out.
Snot argued it was best if she played the gig pissed. Amazing to think that he’d once penned a love song for this girl. Admittedly he only played it live once. Later on the ditty became a Mortal Wound obscurity. For me it was always his Laughing Gnome.
‘Fire shootin’ out the top of is fuckin ‘ed.’
‘All right, Nut, get over it. Will you?’ Stan said.
‘Right, definitely, what’s all this, when you’ve got your big date with rock ‘n’ roll blinkin destiny?’ Gorran warned them, checking off his paint spattering wrist piece. ‘No bullshit Mortal, with all those fucking music biz big shots hanging about with check books open and blinkin pens at the ready. So, get in the picture and leave out all this nasty bloomin bitching.’
The punk supremo took to the centre of the floor, while the band members mostly changed and tuned, looking nervous and sheepish.
‘Straight up, this is the moment of fucking truth for this amazing little blinkin punk group. No bullshit, listen up, cos when you hop up on that big fucking stage tonight, you gotta play the best bloomin set since Suicide blew ‘em all away at the fucking Roxy,’ the mogul urged.
‘Or catch the bus back hom,’ Stan said.
Gina snorted with repressed laughter.
‘Straight up Snot, if you’re gonna have any blinkin chance of winning that fucking record contract, you’ve got to make the Dolls sound like blinkin Smokey. No bullshit, like Smokey on a bloomin cruise liner,’ Gorran argued.
‘No pressure then,’ Gina said.
‘Don’t fucking listen to him,’ Snot advised.
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br /> ‘Right, definitely Snot, and all of you, we can’t afford any more bloomin cock ups or even punch ups either. Fair play or Mortal Wound’s going around the U bend like one of those blinkin submarines without a paddle,’ their manager argued, pressing his palms against his heart.
‘I’m only here for a riot,’ Stan added.
One side of the rock guru’s face was afflicted by an apparent savage tooth ache for a moment.
‘Right, definitely Snot, that EMI bigwig thinks the kids in this town are always bloomin punching the lights out of each other. So, fair play, no more riot talk, when Starry’s easy fucking pickings for any exciting little punk band playing out of their bloomin skins,’ Marty urged, with his eyes pinging at the prospect.
Snot shrugged, grunted and returned his attention to the chord combination. But it was his way of showing commitment.
‘No bullshit, I was chatting to my mate Jez earlier... straight up, sat up close together at the foyer bar... and he let me know, straight up, that he only wants to know if all this blinkin hype about Mortal’s got any shred of fucking truth to it,’ Marty explained.
‘That’s what e fuckin told yer?’ Nutcase wondered.
‘No bullshit, before he hands out that five album record contract to his blinkin favourites. Straight up, with the chance of getting David fucking Bowie behind the blinkin controls as executive producer.’
‘For real?’
‘Bowie isn’t on that label,’ Gina pointed out.
The punk sage gave a start and broadened his embrace. ‘Right definitely Gina, what about it, that Bowie’s not on the same blinkin label? Straight up, if that makes you feel blinkin better about throwing away your first million quid contract,’ Marty objected, losing the wondrous grin.
‘Marty’s always ready to put his money where his mouth is,’ I suggested.
‘We know about that,’ Stan said.
‘No bullshit, if Mortal goes bloomin tits up tonight I won’t be able to show my face in the blinkin Dragon for the rest of my life,’ Marty objected.