Human Punk

by John King

  The traffic slows right down and I go through the bag of tapes, grab Billy Bragg’s Mermaid Avenue, put it in the slot and rewind as the two girls smile, move on again, slow-motion bumper cars, and I’m tempted to put my foot down and smash the back off the Jag, but don’t. There’s a museum in New York dedicated to Woody Guthrie, and Billy Bragg went over and fitted tunes to lyrics Woody never wrote music for, and it’s like all these things keeping coming around. When I was eighteen or so I bought the 101’ers single ‘Keys To Your Heart/Five Star Rock ’N’ Roll Petrol’ on the back of the Clash, because Strummer used to be in the 101’ers. He was called Woody on the label, after Woody Guthrie, so I went out and bought one of his albums. Then I read about his life, how he was a child on the streets during the Depression and travelled on the boxcars, became America’s greatest folk singer. He died in New York, from the same disease that killed his mum. It’s good music. Part of a tradition. Wouldn’t mind going over to New York see that one day. That would be worth a visit.

  Charlie comes knocking at half five and we tuck the flight cases in the back of the van, jam them behind the driver’s seat wrapped in blankets so they don’t get scratched, flat cardboard boxes covering the floor, doing our best to protect the cases from the grease and dirt, and they’re the proper job, full flight cases with stucco alloy finishes for the 7- and 12-inch singles, black-vynide semi-flight for the LPs, each one fitted with heavy-duty steel corners, lift-off hinges, catches and angle trim, go back for the Technics 720s, the hip-hopper’s wheels of steel, classic decks first used more than twenty-five years ago and never bettered, at least in this price range, and it’s all down to the direct-drive, strobe-monitored turntables, lovely, and we wrap another blanket around the decks, make sure they’re wedged in tight and won’t get knocked about, every bit of gear has its place in this transit, and the three of us put five hundred quid in each to buy the van, the company motor, and Charlie pays the road tax and insurance, gets it through the MOT seeing as he uses it for his regular job during the day, and I sit in the back to make sure nothing comes loose as Charlie drives over to Alfonso’s, reverses up the drive, getting as near the garage as he can, Alfonso coming out and banging on the panel right by my head so it rattles my brain, undoes the professional locks that turn a battered breeze-block garage into the Bank of England, well beyond the abilities of your casual robber, the passing stray with nothing better to do than thieve a jar of screws and some worn-down sandpaper, and we strap the speakers to the walls of the van, the back-up deck and amp next, a chest full of cables and peripherals that mean nothing to me, Charlie’s the technician round here, then Alfonso’s records, and he’s the worst one of the lot, loves those discs more than his woman, locks up, and we’re on the move, a quick ride to Feltham joining the M4 at Slough Central, three junctions to Heston, down along the dual carriageway and on to the Great West Road, and we’re playing in this stone building that must be a hundred years old but looks as if it goes back to Saxon times, the walls bleak and pocked like something off a Cornish moor waiting for the Devon boys to follow up the grapeshot and pile in through a reinforced, anti-squatter door, but the two blokes who’ve hired us have a cheap lease on the place, which is still boarded up, and they’re going to turn it into some sort of local venue, put a recording studio in when they have the cash, one day in the future, big dreams we all have, running your own set-up, controlling the means of production, and they’re local lads so it’s a good idea, something for the community instead of a massive profit, and being in Feltham means it’s not going to get the trendies coming down and lowering the tone, there’s none of that bollocks in outer London, and we’re five minutes from the train station tucked down a side street with a primary school on one side and some tired old council offices further along, a small centre for single parents down the side, the rest of the street residential, kids shouting and adults talking, these are the areas we usually play, pulling in a crowd that’s got nothing to do with fashion, a range of ages, people with zero facilities who are gagging for some music and aren’t into any specialist scene or dress code, the usual British look of short hair for the men and blonde dye for the women, and we get all sorts, one crowd can be different to the next, we can switch things around, and another bonus with these venues is we don’t have to be all professional and come up with flashing lights and videos, set up screens and pump ice around, it’s easy come, easy go, in and out, seems to work okay, start-up costs are low with none of that dressing-up wank and stroppy bouncers, and with the big flashy places you get the dance floor packed with wankers of every description because money and pose is what it’s all about, but for us it’s a hobby, something we love doing, we have a chat with the men with the lease, one of them knows Charlie, and they help us unload and set up, and sometimes we get to play a more professional venue, there’s a few around that are okay, you can never generalise, have to give everything a go, stay open-minded, it’s different music but the same honesty, and once we’re done me and Charlie go for a wander while Alfonso stays behind and impresses the others with the size of the spliff he’s rolling, a big chunky bonfire effort, we go up to the main road, past the lorries stuck on the bridge by the station to a low-rise shopping centre, chunks of concrete smoothing out the wind, the usual outer London bulk-selling supermarkets and a new pub on the corner, windows covered in pound-a-pint promotions, hand-drawn cards for the twenty or so lone drinkers scattered around the bar, and Queensmere pisses all over the shops round here, pride in your town, pride in your arcade, specially now it’s been refitted, and we go in the Wimpy and have a cup of tea, watch the men and women pass heads down against the wind, traffic backing up for the roadworks, the thump of drills, go back to the venue as the sun starts sinking, muck around with some records, put on Cock Sparrer’s ‘England Belongs To Me’, then Black Grape’s ‘England’s Irie’, line up the records and test the turntables, and I’m up front getting in there with the words, then Charlie does his set, and finally Alfonso comes in and slows everything down, because by this time the crowd will be lagging, feeling emotional, that’s the plan anyway, depends on what sort of people we get in and how they’re feeling and when we open at nine there’s a rush of punters to the bar in the corner, and some of the walls have been painted, others left bare, and I’m off and running with punk from the seventies, eighties and nineties, the different influences of different times, a couple of rap records thrown in for good measure, polishing off with some 2 Tone, ending with Madness, and I’ll make sixty quid for a couple of hours’ work which can’t be bad, cash in hand, and the music goes down well, specially the classics, all the older chaps singing along to ‘Hersham Boys’, ‘Babylon’s Burning’, ‘Harry May’, ‘Sound Of The Suburbs’, ‘One Step Beyond’, ‘Eton Rifles’, the kids who were hardly born when some of these singles were first released right into it as well, I see it every time, it’s in their blood, punk the high point of rebel music in this country, before the meltdown began, never had a bad response yet, it’s part of our tradition, and looking around there’s always girls who stand nearby giving you the eye, some of them young, others grown-up and filled out, there’s some real crackers in here tonight, short cotton skirts and bare legs, loose yellow material wrapping curved bums and legs, sipping fizzy drinks and bottles of lager, and there’s four blokes standing nearby who obviously know they’re the bollocks in their Fila, Nike, Reebok, probably think I’m a cunt, I’ve done it myself, and you have to laugh, seeing things through someone else’s eyes, can’t complain, I’m just looking after the work of other people, not afraid to look back and forward, working over the same themes, and that’s what life is really, and though we loved music when we were kids we never seriously thought about having a band and standing on a stage, up above the audience, but this is different, you play the music and stay in the background, and it’s all about timing and feeling what’s right and wrong and even if some people say there’s a formula I don’t see it, hot and sweaty now, making sure every record go
es straight back in its sleeve, words banging out of the speakers, people singing along, angry words and smiling faces, that’s what it’s all about, make your point but never take yourself too seriously, demolish serious culture, pumping things up, and a month ago me and Charlie played this pub in West Drayton packed with seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds, a larey bunch of kids who weren’t interested in reggae, a night off for Alfonso, and as soon as I played ‘Anarchy In The UK’ the whole place went up, the bouncers steaming in to sort things out, and then it kicked off again and I stopped the record, played ‘Life On Mars’ for old time’s sake, had to smile, and when it comes to music there should be no sell-by dates, that’s the best thing about sampling and mixing, reinventing and recreating, everything connects, and in everyday life our history is sold cheap, dismissed, doesn’t matter if it’s popular music or any other area of social history, and in a place like this it doesn’t matter if the 7-inch vinyl I’m lining up is twenty years old or something more recent, and when Charlie takes over it will be another wordless version, machines taking over the world, it’s all part of the culture move, and it’s turning into a good night with Charlie raring to go, and I hand over, go and have a drink, lost in the crowd, out of sight and out of mind, except for Sarah who comes steaming in with a mate, didn’t expect to see her, it’s a surprise but I’m not complaining, I told her to come along if she wanted except I never thought she would, just met the woman, and she’s looking good in PVC trousers and a small top, can feel my knob twitching, and she’s sweating, her face covered in water, powerful perfume, the smell of drink and drugs and football thugs all around us, the mascara thick about her eyes, perfect, Charlie boy going straight in and speeding things up, stripping the music down to the bone getting rid of the vocals, right to the nitty-gritty, and things go in circles so one day the words will matter again, one step back and two steps forward, that’s the way of the world, nothing ever stands still and the only thing that’s certain in this life is that everything changes, an endless cycle, and there’s no perfect world waiting, moving forward in time doesn’t mean we get better, in my short life I’ve seen some things get better, others worse, and Sarah and her mate are out of their trees, Sarah’s babbling away with this look she carries in her razor eyes, talking into my ear, can’t understand her with the music turned right up, smell the fags and drink, I love that smell on a woman, and she’s introducing me to her friend who says hello then goes and starts talking to someone, and I’m left drinking lager from a can, no pipes set up yet, and the rest of the night I spend with Sarah, speeding into the distance not knowing what the fuck’s coming out of my mouth, going on, like you do, and now the music’s slowing down and Alfonso’s shaking the speakers with the Soul Sisters’ ‘Wreck A Buddy’, his timing’s just right with people lagging, dirty words to a dirty song, some slow dances, and I’m leaning against the wall tapping my foot on the bricks, the crowd thinning and disappearing, leaving us to stack our gear and load the van, taking the cases outside, Sarah’s friend long gone, lives local and is walking home with her sister, Sarah gives us a hand, doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty, and we’re standing in the street with the van full of all this vinyl and equipment, a quiet street and a beautiful sky, millions of stars twinkling, Sarah pointing at the moon, ears ringing from the music, coming outside makes you appreciate the simple things, this is what it’s all about, good music and good company, no nutters looking to glass someone, now and then there’s a problem but most people don’t piss in their own lift, it’s not the sort of night where a mob of blokes turns up for a row, or just to get their leg over, it’s different to that, people know the kind of music that’s coming their way and show an interest, most of the time anyway, and we stand around having a chat with the blokes running the place and it’s a shame tonight has to end, and we’re on the move, rolling through the empty streets of West London, on to the M4, the motorway perfect this time of night, a long empty strip of black tarmac that the beams dig into, Charlie snapping the brights on as we pass under the M25 and hit the freeway-style lanes leading into Langley, passing over the hump to Slough Central, the surface bumpier as we slide off the slip road, and I’m sitting in the back with Sarah rubbing my bollocks, every now and then Alfonso leaning over trying to make himself heard over the music, Charlie playing his Outcaste compilation, the mix of tablas, digital beats and the clank of a dodgy exhaust drowning him out, I move her hand away, and we get round to Alfonso’s, the air fresh and cool after the stink of oil ground into the van, I help the others unload the gear, leave my records in Alfonso’s living room, walk round to Sarah’s, everything dead and shut up like there’s a curfew on, a police car passing and slowing down, seeing it’s a man and a woman, speeding up again, and when we get in she starts going on about phoning Chapatti Express, till she hears what I’m saying, it shuts at half-eleven, and she’s got me going so I can almost smell the fumes, makes me some toast instead as I sit on the couch playing with the telly’s remote, flicking channels, and she’s got the lot this girl, terrestrial, satellite and cable channels loaded and firing, a black mesh dish outside her kitchen window catching the cartoons, all the old favourites, anything to keep the kid quiet, and I chug past the cheap imported films, endless newsflashes and current affairs programmes that say nothing, programmers more interested in filling airtime and attracting sponsors than quality, creating stories out of nothing, lines of American game shows, poor whites and blacks battering their nearest and dearest, German and Scandinavian cookery, every sport ever invented, and I’m into a cathode-ray tirade of lawand-order good-versus-bad moralising by brain-dead careerists with no guts, no humour, no nothing, the screen sucks me in and I see the face of one of my betters feeding the same old line to the nation, channels clogged with shit, and it’s the same old mantra, SINGLE MUMS, SINGLE MUMS, never mind their kids, these fuckers love it, hanging from the rafters and preaching to the masses, it makes me sick, the same old shit I’ve been hearing all my life, and the thing is they never go away, just put on different masks, and I turn the telly off, tempted to kick the front of the screen in, look up and see Sarah standing at the door with a plate piled with toast, and it’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven, sit down and eat, drink the mug of tea she’s made, sitting opposite smiling as she pops pieces of bread in her mouth, crossing and uncrossing her legs, she could be a model, if the models weren’t being sold as skinny under-age junkies battered by their pimps, and when I’ve finished eating we talk for a while, till she stands in front of me and reaches for my hands, pulls me up and leads me into the bedroom where we stand kissing for a while, undressing, and then she’s turning round and leaning forward with her hands resting on the dressing table, this cheap effort that looks like it’ll fall down any minute, artificial grain glued to plywood, the mirror huge, too big for the dressing table, and the curtains are thin and the sun is starting to rise, must’ve been talking for ages, and we’re covered in this orange light, I feel sorry for the people who have to get up at the crack of dawn and go into work, the shelf-stackers and forklift drivers, the bartenders on their way home and the dads getting in early for some overtime, all of them hidden from the sun, building tin pyramids and sweeping floors, the repetitive production-line jobs, Sarah wiggling her bum in the air as I move forward, and I’m looking around for the rubbers, spot them over the other side of the bed, slip one on quickly, slide in watching the knobs of her backbone and curve of her hips, and when I see myself in the mirror I start laughing, can’t help myself, this scruffy herbert who needs a shave, the faded old LOUD PROUD & PUNK T-shirt I’ve still got on, I was wearing it under my shirt, using it as a vest, and I start creasing up so Sarah looks into the mirror, her face is red, she wants to know what I’m laughing at, thinks it’s her, that I’m taking the piss or something, and I say it’s nothing, but it’s the sort of thing that creases me up, like when you watch a film and a ragged old actor is busy shagging a classy woman forty years younger than him, it doesn’t make any sense, no sense
at all, Sarah reaching down and grabbing my balls, giving them a hard squeeze that stops me laughing, and it’s me I’m laughing at, not her, just taking the piss out of myself, the pale white skin of an English new-town, the hair I cut with my razor, shaving it number two before I left, and I must stink as well, need a wash, get rid of the sweat and drink, and I have to get this together, shut up and go over to the decks set up in the back of my brain, nick into Parish’s selection, try and get into the mechanical rhythm of electronic sex, and maybe it’s the wrong thing right now, but I’m cracking up inside, so what, no words to worry about, and you have to let yourself go sometimes, put lyrics on a back burner, concentrate on the business in hand, and I’m in the groove, looking down at the rubber doing its job, and it’s the new breed of condom built to go through the rougher types of sex, and I look up at the mirror again, see this rag-and-bone man in action, make faces in the mirror, just can’t help it, crack a smile and show my teeth, and Sarah comes, moves forward, says it’s hurting now, and I pull out hoping for some hand relief but get an earful instead, she thinks I’m taking the piss, but I’m not, it’s this sort of relief or something, and I try to explain, that it’s just being happy, and when you’re happy you can have a joke, and I tell her what I was laughing at, and she smiles and says the T-shirt needs a wash, I need a shave, there’s no problem, a tough woman who can look after herself, and this is what it’s all about, it doesn’t get much better than this, good music, good mates, good money, and a good girl offering up some good loving, she sits me down and finishes me off, I reckon I could be falling in love for the first time in my life as she goes into the bathroom and starts running the bath, and I sit on the bed for a few minutes, go over to the window and look out at the empty street, no people in the world right now, and I stay here for a few minutes thinking, then go and see what she’s doing, find her in the kitchen dressed in a fluffy dressing gown and Mickey Mouse slippers, boiling the kettle up for another cup of tea.