by Neil Rowland
‘Sure, very entertaining,’ Jacky said. ‘Promises a lot!’ He gave his inside jacket pocket a bash.
‘You got a copy?’
‘And he writes gig reviews for Music Mail too,’ she explained.
‘Oh right, sure. I was in the hall tonight and I really enjoyed your performance,’ La Costa told her.
‘The band? Ah, thanks. We did all right, with this gig.’
‘Sure.’
‘No big prize though!’
I was staring into La Costa’s tufted ear hair at this point.
‘Surely, you blew me away.’
‘Mortal Wound isn’t my band. I’m just a member,’ Sour Cat explained.
‘Sure. So how long have you been performing? You play the guitar well, you sing... great. Do you write your own songs?’ The record mogul had an eager look.
‘I’m not Burt Bacharach,’ she teased.
‘Right!’
Jacky’s Cheshire cat grin crinkled his eyes. All the same he’d got a nervous thing going with his hand, as if he’d suffered too many drum tracks.
‘You’re a keyboardist too. Is that right?’
‘That’s what I can do. Only they don’t like me doing keyboards. Stan writes most of the tunes, so far. Maybe I’ll get the chance to contribute later on.’
‘Right, Jacky, it’s good to meet you... what’s your interest in the band? What’s your angle on this?’ I asked.
Touching my elbow Jacky offered me a pitying ‘leave this to me, son’ smile. Background boy - that was my fate. ‘You came over really damn well on stage, Gina. Talent, originality, presence. That’s what I damn well got from you up there.’
Cat was thrilled with such an observation; keeping her previous fears a secret.
La Costa grinned, sighed, drew breath. He looked away and looked back again, as if Gina was a million dollars. Maybe she was that and more. ‘I sure had a great time tonight. How could those pricks of judges fail to place you? I nearly jumped out of my fucking boots.’ He ran his Gordian knuckles through that ‘duck’s arse’ barnet. His quiff gleamed like a chunk of melting tar under the lights. ‘Damn, how did they come to their decision?’ Jacky said - still tapping - not breaking up his intensely narrow malty gaze.
Gina and I could only wince at the cold coffee of fate.
Jacky pulled out a twenty pack of cigarettes. ‘Here. You like? Do you smoke?’ he offered.
‘Only after sex,’ Cat told him.
He burst out laughing. ‘Oh, yeah, really?’
‘When it’s any good.’
‘Oh. At your age?’ the leading independent record owner se’emed shocked.
‘I’m seventeen,’ she retorted crossly.
‘Oh.’
‘And this isn’t nineteen fifty seven.’
‘Sure, right.’
I stared at my boots and rearranged the contact of the soles to the ground.
La Costa opted to abstain from smoking. Infact, just managing not to drop the pack, twirling and replacing th’em, awkwardly within the mature leather jacket.
‘Who the hell was that bunch of jump suited clowns, Amyl Exciters anyway?’ he declared.
‘Is guitar music going out of fashion or what?’ Cat replied.
‘Total crap,’ I said.
‘That A&R guy knew damn all. It was the wrong damn call tonight.’
‘We thought so.’
‘Fuckin’ typical, man.’
Cat was starting to warm to Jacky. His medley of tics was relaxing her. Perhaps being neurotic made him sympathetic towards music talent.
‘Yeah and who was that clown, up there in his goddamn bath robe?’ Jacky asked - his voice went to a croak.
‘That would be Paulie,’ she said.
Luckily Gina never got to smok in bed next to Paulie, after good sex.
‘He’s scrammed to London,’ I explained. ‘Took his bongos. Joining a group, a type of collective... or commune or something... calling th’emselves Rip Rig and Random.’
‘Sure, that guy, who’s singer with Viscous Kittens band, was it?’
‘Viscous,’ I said.
‘Whatever, man. Stick or non-stick... I couldn’t believe my fucking eyes... some guy stood up there in his bathrobe,’ he recalled, shaking his head. ‘Never seen nothing like that before.’ I could hear the cigarettes in Jacky’s voice, before and after sex.
‘Right, but the rest of the group was good,’ I argued.
‘Surely. Then that trailer trash screecher coming second,’ Jacky said. ‘Give me strength.’
‘Ah, c’m on, she wasn’t too bad,’ Gina said. ‘I heard much worse. She’s a good guitarist and her voice is powerful.’
‘Surely, but you coulda tapped me over. I thought it hada be a damn mistake, when that politician muppet gave us the final order. Couldn’t believe my damn ears. Even in that band you blew me away. You stood out. No damn doubt,’ Jacky argued. The fingers of his right hand picked up a different time meanwhile.
‘Right, so we got your opinion,’ I said. ‘So what do you gonna do for Mortal Wound?’
‘Sure, I’ll get back to the damn point of this... because I’m not going to overlook an original talent. It’d damn near kill me. I couldn’t damn well live with myself afterwards!’ he declared, hoarsely.
It was making Cat nervous. ‘Well, right, so what about it?’ the girl wondered.
‘Sure, I’m going to offer you a record deal... that’s what’s about it!’ The grooves and wrinkles around his malt flavoured eyes deepened.
Gina couldn’t look unimpressed any more. She looked at Jacky la Costa as if he was Santa Claus with a sack of new records.
‘Amazing. But I can’t give you a postive reply... until I speak to the rest of the band.’
‘Really, a deal!’
‘The rest of the band? Why’d I want to speak to them for?’ The face of experience creased like an old pommel horse.
‘It’s great, you know... that you want to offer us a deal, but you know... there’s band democracy... we’ll have to discuss this offer.’
It had never existed before. Stan was Mussollini. Yet I was impressed by her loyalty.
‘The deal is for you, Gina, not for the others. Dick Discs is too big for those guys.’
Sour Cat and I exchanged looks.
‘What’s that? Too big for what?’ she told him.
‘Sure, I can offer you a copper-bottomed contract. We’ll book you into our little studio in Hammersmith... with a leading producer. We’ll get you reviewed, we’ll get you on the damn radio. You can record all your own songs if you want to. After a couple of singles we’ll release your LP... with the biggest publicity campaign since Dick Discs began,’ he pledged.
Gina and I made efforts to recover from our shock. Or was she to be tempted into such a betrayal?
‘Sure, because here in Dick Discs we have a massive reputation... And ‘a better ear for music’. Sales last month were up to the level of Stiff and Rough Trade. We’ve got outstanding designers. Marketing and publicity are so damn hot, people get fired in the so-called major record companies. We got our Gross Kunst label over there in Berlin... to handle European distribution and copyright.’
‘Trying to impress me or what?’ Gina commented.
‘No need to tell the others. Sure, we can’t give you big money up front. I’m not going to argue Dick Discs is bigger than the majors. We don’t have Abbey Road available,’ he told her - laughing with frustration at her negative attitude.
‘I don’t care if you want to record me singing with strings,’ Gina said. Her look came right out of the deep freeze. ‘What are you trying to pull?’
‘This is an honest interest, in your talent.’
‘Nothing honest about it. You c
an’t cherry pick one person out of our great little band.’
‘It’s a take it or damn well leave it offer,’ he insisted - having lost that smile.
‘Leave it. Otherwise, I know, you’ll just kill it. You start picking and choosing with original personnel... the sound and the personality will go out of it. That’s fatal. Whatever we’ve got... with Mortal... that’s special. Do you get me?’
‘You can’t just dump Mortal like this. Not after how great they played tonight.’
The record boss took not a flicker of interest. ‘Don’t try to explain this business to me, son,’ he said, grimly.
Gina narrowed her eyes - and I wouldn’t want to be in such tight focus.
Jacky watched her estimation plummet. He took another sip of hard liquor and chuckled in a genial way. ‘Sure. I understand where you’re coming from. You’re damn sweet and loyal. I can see that. But it isn’t my job to do musicians any favours.’
‘Excuse me, you don’t have to do our band any favours.’
‘Sure, but don’t reject your big opportunity.’
‘We come together or not at all.’
‘Sure, but my job’s to sell records. I need artists I can damn well promote. It’s all about songs and image, man,’ Jacky argued, up on his toes.
‘Excuse me, but that’s top quality bullshit.’
‘Oh yeah? I’ll never get kids to identify with a character like Stan Snot. The image is all wrong with that kid. He just doesn’t look cool. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s been fun meeting you,’ Gina told him.
‘Surely, but you’re not going to turn me down kid... are you?’
Gina gave a shrivelling look, accentuated by rings of black, like an owl from hell.
‘Did the Pistols’s talk upset you?’ I asked.
‘You’re really going to spit on my damn boots?’ La Costa marvelled.
‘That’s what the punks do,’ Cat reminded him.
***
‘What are you fucking hob-nobbing here about?’ Stan demanded, shuffling over. The entire motley of Mortal came to join us. They still had that miserable aura of defeat.
‘Recognise our lead guitarist?’ Gina remarked. ‘See any star potential?’
‘What’s that?’ Snot wondered.
La Costa looked very embarrassed.
‘I recognise Jacky La Costa, don’t I?’ Stan said.
‘You did?’
‘No double-take necessary.’
‘Dick Discs is my favourite fucking label,’ Snot enthused.
‘Damn pleased to meet you all.’
‘I’m totally in to Screamin Chickens,’ he admitted.
La Costa was back grinning and gloating.
‘I’ve got everything Septic Tank released on Gross Kunst.’
‘Yeah, fuckin awesome. So when’s the new Big Foot single out?’ Nutcase asked.
‘Next month,’ the label boss informed them.
‘Fuckin ace.’
‘I got the tapes for their new EP last week.’
‘So what’s the chief of Dick Discs doing here in old Nulton town?’ Snot wondered ‘You wasn’t here to watch that Battle of the Bands contest... otherwise known as the war of the losers, was you?’
‘Sure, bang on.’
‘Butlin’s ballroom closed?’ Stan said.
‘What you fink Jacky, mate? Was we any good or what?’ Nutcase enquired, wringing his giant hands.
‘Fair play now, Jacky bay, we’d be happy to hear your opinion on us like,’ Billy said. ‘Fair play now, is there anythin’ for us to feckin go on?’
‘I don’t believe it, Jacky La Costa from Dick Discs, here tonight, catching one of our gigs,’ Stan said. It was so rare for him to show enthusiasm.
‘Jacky heard us play, Stan. You caught Jacky and me in the middle of negotations,’ Gina said, averting her gaze, fluttering the killer-spider eyelashes.
‘What fucking negotations?’ Snot demanded.
‘Gina, the big guy here is definitely out,’ Jacky wheezed, behind his hand.
‘You tell him that,’ she retorted.
‘What?’ said Nutcase, looking between them.
The variegated bunch of punks were all confused.
‘Sure, but I’d get more than I bargained for here,’ Jacky told his protege.
‘This is your lucky night,’ Cat said.
Snot was very baffled. ‘You going to explain this?’
Gina stared back at La Costa with mock bewilderment. ‘Does this band have its record deal or what?’
Jacky laughed deeply and slowly, shaking his head.
‘Since when did you negotiate record deals? I’m the leader of this band,’ Stan reminded her.
‘This isn’t a solo act, this is a group,’ I reminded him.
Stan glared as if I stole his toy tank again.
‘Fair play, so what type of record deal we talking about here so, lads?’
‘Mortal on Dick Discs?’ said Stan. ‘Or maybe some Gross Kunst EPs?’
‘Sure... Stan... Gina... the rest of you guys... What I can offer you... What I can offer Mortal Wound... is a deal for two singles and an album... first up, right? Surely, if those first releases go well, man, we’ll offer you a longer term deal. That’s the best damn offer I’m throwing down on the table!’ Jacky declared.
‘I can’t believe me ears,’ Nutcase remarked, standing even taller.
‘Cheers Jacky!’ Billy told him, whacking the indie record boss’s leather clad shoulder.
‘Right, so what was the problem with me?’ Snot said.
‘Where you want to start?’ Gina told him. She gave a tipsy laugh.
‘How come I was tuning into something?’ Stan objected.
‘Tune out,’ I told him.
‘What you fucking talking about, Bottle?’
‘Surely, no problem guys, cos I invite you all down to the Dick Disc office. Come and have a good damn look at our studio in Hammersmith. I’m not gonna tell you Dick Discs is bigger than the majors. Dick is large enough to make an impact. We’ll turn you into massive winners, straight down the damn line,’ Jacky assured th’em.
‘Cheers Jacky!’ Nut declared.
‘We’ll draw up the damn contract, after you have a look at the studio. Do you guys have a manager yet? Right, so get the guy over here a. s. a. p. and I’ll buy him a celebratory pint... and all of you guys!’ he offered.
‘Hello, hello. No bullshit, what’s happening? Right, definitely, looks as if we got a proper blinkin big pow-wow going on here,’ Gorran observed, descending. He turned an inquisitive grin around the grouping. ‘Straight up lads, is there something wrong with my blinkin eyes or is this the big chief from bloomin Dick Discs stood before us?’
‘One and the same, man,’ Jacky informed him. ‘And who might this guy be? Your manager?’ he asked, turning to Gina.
‘Marty Gorran, and I reckon you’ve already had your first blinkin introductions to the best little kick-arse punk band in the country. Fair play, and this side of the Sex Pistols’ secret gig at Duncehead’s fucking Ballroom last year,’ Marty informed him.
‘Yeah, sure, man...’
‘No doubt Jacky mate, or I must be blinkin Tom Jones. No bullshit, I snapped ‘em up first blinkin chance I got, knowing they’d make it up the singles chart quicker’n that Georgio bloomin Marauder on that fucking mini moog his.’
But no hype was necessary from the punk maestro at this stage. It looked as if Marty was about to lead the negotations and to strike his first gold disc. The next riot would be on a much bigger scale.
After striking a deal, cutting a first single, arranging the first big supporting tour, Mortal set off on the whole crazy, exciting music biz shebang.
Kyiv - July 16th, 2016
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