Punk Story Page 6

  ‘Mortal Wound meet Betsy and the Screamers. Betsy and the Screamers meet Mortal Wound,’ he expostulated, opening up the crevices in his spongy features.

  ‘Phew! Like, wooh, pleased to meet all you guys!’ Betsy said in greeting, still buzzing and breathless from the show.

  Betsy turned out to be a genuine American. ‘Like I’m pooped,’ she admitted, with a big modest shrug. She was drenched in fresh sweat, under the leather, forced to pull down the zip of her body suit. Betsy knew the effect she had on local youth. ‘So like what did you guys think of the show?’ she wondered. She actually wanted the opinion of a local punk band.

  ‘You was great!’ Billy declared.

  ‘Sounded all right,’ Nutcase admitted.

  ‘Like we definitely lost energy...during the middle?. Like, fuck man, I felt like I was almost singin to my Mom there. I couldn’t believe what my voice was soundin like. Next time I should really, like, invite my Mom!’

  ‘Is your Mum fucking deaf?’ Stan said.

  Even if she was a fading rock megastar, everyone instantly liked her. She was popular in the town - she had a following. Betsy had been adopted by the local music scene. She was a genuine American export. Just by settling in Nulton she had an instant pop celebrity. They hadn’t seen the like of her in the flesh.

  ‘Mortal Wound, Les Phoenix. Les Phoenix, Mortal Wound.’ With gyrations and open palms, Gorran pulled strings and held his charm A/C at full setting.

  So we were introduced to Mister Les Phoenix. In truth I’d seen him about town. Les was hard to miss this side of Houston. A lofty fifty-something bloke in a bulky fur coat with a Texan style ten-gallon hat, he was distinctive. Phoenix was the biggest Elvis Presley fan south of Memphis or, come to that, Manchester.

  ‘Hi you guys,’ he greeted us, in that cold and aloof style. ‘Real happy you enjoyed the show tonight with Betsy and the guys. Yeah, far out, guys. Welcome to the future of rock ‘n’ roll.’

  His Lone Star accent was as mid-Atlantic as some volcanic atoll. Cue much interlacing of fingers and jolting of joints, however. The lights of the Nulton glitterati fused.

  ‘No bullshit, because our Les has been handling Betsy and the bloomin boys ever since they first stepped off the fucking aeroplane,’ Marty informed us, grinning at the historic memory. ‘Fair play, it seems like a long time ago now, when they had to duck their fucking heads to avoid the blinkin propellers,’ he suggested.

  ‘Marty, it’s down in the annals of rock history,’ insisted Les. ‘Down in the hall of freakin fame. Man it must be over a decade back,’ Les recalled. He was up in the ceiling and preferred to look right over our heads, as if missing us completely. Under the hat he gave a particular look; he was squinting down an endless highway over the plains of Idaho.

  ‘Les and me kinda bump along together,’ Betsy teased, sweetly, giving an affectionate dig into her manager.

  The American eagle had a fond twinkle in its acute eye. ‘A great gal to handle, my Betsy. She’s no freakin trouble at all,’ he enthused dryly.

  She was trying to touch on an English accent. ‘Yeah, and Les heard our first gig, at Peter-borough, and kinda liked the way me and the boys kicked it out. Did you guys, like, ever get to play Peter-borough yet? So when Les offered to handle our careers over here in England, man, I just had to leap at the offer. Les is such a sweetie and he knows his way around England.’

  ‘Straight up Betsy, he ought to,’ Gorran remarked.

  ‘Right!’ she exclaimed. She showed the perfect pearls and didn’t hide them away.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to work with this little gal,’ Les told us, evenly. ‘What a great artist. And let me tell y’all, she’s gonna be a freakin huge star in little old England. Period.’

  Betsy’s dazzling greenish blue eyes shined perfectly. She was definitely a ‘sweet’ kind of person, you could tell that, whatever we thought about her music - which was obviously, as Stan said, ‘complete bollocks’.

  ‘No shit Marty, so tell us what kinda noise does this Mortal outfit of yours make?’ Phoenix asked.

  ‘We make a really horrible noise,’ Stan told him, adopting plummy tones. ‘It’s disgusting.’

  The ten-gallon hat swivelled a degree as, a bald eagle from a cliff top, Les scrutinised Snot from an American altitude. ‘Sure enough man, I can believe that.’

  ‘Right, definitely Les, don’t mind Snot’s rock ‘n’ roll bloomin rebel attitude. No bullshit, we shot down to the Hatter, hot-foot from the band’s fantastic headline gig at Nulton Arts College.’

  ‘They still playin college gigs, man?’

  ‘Straight up, Les, these boys and girls are the best little in-your-face bloomin punk group you’ll ever get to hear. Definitely, and if their blinkin live dates go to plan they’ll be up there on stage at the Lyceum ballroom, Jubilee year out.’ Gorran was set up nicely to put over the hype. ‘Or I must be Tammy Why-not,’ he insisted, sagely.

  Les Phoenix refused to be easily impressed. He dabbed long thin lips into a tumbler of original American malt whisky. Somehow he didn’t sweat under that thick coat and big hat. Keeping cool was part of being an American.

  ‘Sure man, so is it heavy rock, blues, country or what the freakin hell is it these guys play?’ he wondered levelly. However, he didn’t object to piss weakened beer soaking into his Cuban heels.

  ‘Straight up Les, Mortal is a new British punk band. Fair play, Les, where you been blinkin hiding out these past months? An’t you been watching what’s been going on musically in the bloomin UK or what?’ he objected, with a helpful smirk of being fully in touch.

  ‘Shoot, we already had our ‘punks’ in the US of A, Marty, baby. Like, are these guys ever gonna sell any rec’rds?’ Phoenix croaked.

  ‘This band’s not gonna make any records,’ Snot argued.

  ‘Right, definitely Les, don’t take any blinkin notice of this herbert. Straight up, did the Sex Pistols’ debut go to number one in the bloomin charts and right up the nostrils of the fucking establishment? Or have I got my musical nose up my own blinkin arse, Les mate?’ Gorran said, grinning in disbelief at the ridiculous idea.

  ‘That your pitch, Marty baby? You’re gonna try’n break these buncha hoe-fingered freakin British punk kids?’ Phoenix dismissed Snot as any kind of rock star or guitar god. Of course he hadn’t heard him play yet.

  ‘No bullshit Les, I’m inviting you, Betsy and the Screamers and all the blinkin Red Rooster crew, back down to the Hatter, Saturday week, to catch Mortal’s premier fucking club gig,’ Marty offered.

  ‘Sure man, if our travellin’ show’s back in town,’ Phoenix replied, standoffishly.

  ‘Right, definitely, but...’

  ‘Yeah Marty, you know we’re kinda gigging regular now around England. So only if there’s a slot in my gal’s ske-dule,’ Les said, peevishly.

  ‘Fair play, Les mate, you don’t want to miss out on the blinkin British punk scene that’s exploding all around us.’

  ‘Gee Marty, thanks for the tip, man. God bless, but I don’t need your advice about freakin popular music.’ He took down some more whisky and his pale narrow eyes scanned the packed venue for alternative interest.

  ‘Rock music’s out of style,’ Snot commented.

  Les turned his gaze down scornfully. ‘Money ain’t out of style, son.’

  ‘I hate commercial rock,’ Stan added.

  ‘Gee, Marty, where you find this buncha losers from?’

  ‘Straight up Les, you’re getting out of touch with the bloomin latest vital music scene in the UK.’

  ‘Look man, maybe I don’t wanna be in touch. Cos, shoot, the dollars are in the freakin adult market. Period. Like, if you try to promote these rough Brit kids, you’re gonna frighten away your mature consumers. They’ll put their dollars into sports or the stock market. Then you’ve lost your frea
kin purse,’ Les warned. ‘Period.’

  ‘Right, definitely, but it’s blinkin exciting to witness this music... and the kids in the UK are all getting into this fucking scene now and they’re definitely buying all the records,’ Marty pointed out, showing his impressive crags of teeth.

  ‘You shittin me? Here in your little old England?’ Phoenix said. ‘They got any spare dollars in this shoe box?’

  The DJ gave a shrug. ‘Right, definitely, why not Les mate?’

  ‘Doesn’t sound very sexy or rock ‘n’ roll to me, Marty baby. Like it’s Elvis without the wiggle, man.’

  ‘Fair play, how can you write off punk rock, Les mate? Straight up, you could find yourself out of pocket, like some streaker who’s lost his fucking trousers down at the bloomin laundry.’

  Phoenix puzzled over the risk. ‘How’s this Mortal outfit goin down in Blue Ridge Montana, Marty? Or at Syrup Creek, Ohio? On the level with you, man, if you’re sellin rec’rds from NYC to LA, then come back and talk to me about your hit group, Marty,’ he suggested, pinching his long narrow pointy nose.

  ‘Right, definitely, but you’re gonna look like a right Nancy Sinatra, with blinkin holes in her fucking walking boots. Straight up Les, take notice of what’s happening, or you’ll be left with bloomin ostrich egg on your face,’ Marty predicted, winking at us all with a little knowing laugh.

  ‘Gee, Marty, I’ve never had anything on my goddamn face, except shaving foam,’ Phoenix retorted, pulling up the back of his fur collar.

  ‘Right, definitely Les, you didn’t stand at the back of the blinkin hall at Nulton Arts tonight getting a load of this fantastic little punk band here, flooring the whole fucking venue. Fair play, being totally fucking blown away by what we heard,’ he raved.

  ‘Like I appreciate your dedication to the little guy, Marty baby. Gee, it’s really British of you. But, in the words of that classic Brit rock group, The Who, you don’t wanna be a freakin fashion victim, baby.’

  ‘Right, definitely, but...’

  ‘Listen man, I’ve had more hit acts over the years than you’ve had maple syrup pancakes,’ Les told him. He directed a thinly pitying smile at Mortal. Apart from Snot and me they’d all wandered off, sick of being put down.

  ‘Where d’you come from in America?’ Stan asked.

  ‘Beverly Hills,’ Les replied. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Beverly Hills?’

  ‘So why you living here in Nulton?’

  ‘What’s the goddamn big deal, son?’

  ‘How long you lived here?’

  ‘Several decades,’ Marty commented.

  ‘Ain’t no moss gatherin’ on this freakin rollin’ stone.’

  ‘Fair play, Les, mainstream rock’s gone all blinkin Bing Crosby, ever since this punk rock thing exploded,’ Marty insisted. ‘In the UK and in the blinkin States.’

  ‘Gee baby, I hate to see you disappointed,’ Les told him, savouring the warm spices of his drink.

  ‘Straight up, I signed up Mortal Wound to Star Materials. Fair play, and the sky an’t the limit with this kick-arse little group. Or I must be Dust Springfield.’

  ‘Well, shoot Marty, if you’re so confident about these punk rock losers of yours, why ain’t you enterin’ em in for this Nulton ‘Battle of the Bands’ contest?’

  Phoenix took a final finger of his whisky. He wasn’t self-conscious about living under a cowboy hat. He pulled off the whole routine with conviction.

  ‘Right, definitely Les mate, what ‘Battle of the Bands’ competition we talking about?’ For once Marty hadn’t heard about it. He was alarmed to feel that he wasn’t in the know.

  The Texan music manager had one up. ‘Hey man, don’t you ever read your freakin noospapers?’

  ‘Right, definitely, when I get the blinkin time,’ Gorran cringed.

  ‘Gee man, you gotta keep up with the media. Didn’t you hear about the Battle of the Bands? These politician guys... this local Nulton congress is gonna hold a talent show.’

  ‘You mean those blinkin bastards on the council?’ Marty pushed.

  ‘Whatever those politicians call ‘emselves these days, man.’

  ‘Fair play, what kinda contest might you be blinkin talking about?’

  ‘Like, the freakin congress is gonna hold a moosic contest, Marty. You gotta put your goddam name forward, man. I’ve already entered Betsy and the boys. We’re gonna kick ass, man,’ he predicted. ‘What the hell you afraid of, baby?’

  Marty blenched and cringed. ‘How did all this come about? I never heard a bloomin word about no talent contest?’

  ‘Gee, you need to get up to speed. You ain’t up to first base, on this big gig, Marty. Like, the local congress got some juice from your little British department of health and social security,’ Les informed us.

  The punk guru had a hand on his forehead. ‘Straight up, I have to enter my bands.’

  The Texan mogul grinned slyly. ‘Well, shoot Marty baby, no harm tryin to slug it out with the best.’

  Gorran found an inch to scratch in his frizzy birds’ nest thatch. ‘Fair play, Les mate, what sort of prizes they offering?’

  ‘Like there’s this A&R guy from the EMI corporation. He’s comin up to this little town from London, to be one of the judges? No bull, he’s offerin the winner a freakin rec’rd contract. And EMI are gonna put the new act on a national tour of England. In support of a major act, yet to be lined up.’

  ‘Straight up, Les, no bullshit, that sounds blinkin tempting.’

  ‘OK man, so if you reckon these punk boys a yours got a freakin chance... What have you got to lose, man? Like, only your freakin pride and your Premium Bonds, man,’ Les laughed dryly. ‘Do you have enough juice for the entrance fees or what?’

  ‘Right, definitely Les mate, so I’m gonna take you up on all that.’

  ‘Gee, this could be my big break.’

  6. Mortal on the Run

  Mortal’s gig at Nulton Arts certainly lives on in the mental record collection. But there was fallout from that fracas. There was even front page coverage in the local press, which got Stan’s family door stepped. The experience was uncomfortable, even if his parents protected him and refused to make any comment other than positive ones.

  If Snot thought it was just a hilarious stunt, he was definitely mistaken. When the Principle called him back into his office, it wasn’t to thank him for raising money for charity. That cheque had been large enough to cover all the damage. Sketchley was appalled by all that negative publicity, which didn’t reflect well on the image of art students.

  Snot left the Principal’s office expelled. He realised there was no such thing as a free riot. Even if he was never mistaken for Leo Sayer again, he wasn’t gloating about it. We’d finished our final exams and were expecting the results. Stan needed an academic reference to begin his apprenticeship. As plain Jon Whitmore he’d been offered a career with Drew Spiro’s industrial design company. The economic situation of the country wasn’t great (understatement), so Snot had done well to get it. The Principle wasn’t in any mood to write Snot love letters.

  Sketchley wasn’t the only one to target us. It was risky to emerge a punk, to make a statement, despite the aggressive media stereotype. We were far from the tolerant atmosphere of the King’s Road or Camden Lock. As soon as we punks got a bad image, we were generally feared and loathed. All of a sudden we were vilified and became legitimate targets for ‘normal’ and ‘ordinary’ people. Especially when they considered us to be unpatriotic, trying to wreck the Jubilee celebrations. Of course the Sex Pistols were as British as fish ‘n’ chips.

  You can see there was more deference in British society then. Certainly we had to tread carefully on Saturday nights out, any place outside the Dragon or the Hatter. You’d get a crowd of menacing ‘casuals’ strolling back home, in dec
eptively stylish sports shirts and tuck trousers, who just wanted to put their brogues into our ribs. All of a sudden you had to keep your wits about you, just living your life. Even Johnny Rotten/Lydon couldn’t relax in his favourite pub any more. It was necessary for him to escape an angry mob by scarpering through the rear car park. That was the effect of the publicity. It was hard for those lads to enjoy all the fame and notoriety.

  Fortunately for Snot he was not known beyond the local scene. Incredibly a positive review of the Mortal gig was printed in the Nulton Chronicle. The reviewer was a lad called Paulie Wellington. Stan wasn’t impressed by the article, but we’ll come to all that palaver later.

  Mortal Wound went into rehearsals in Snot’s garage. Garage Land was a way to hide without giving up the group altogether. There was still a missing element to their sound and line-up, even considering the amateur punk ethos. Despite getting expelled and losing a potential career, Stan was getting to know his guitar. On the sly he was learning about song writing. If he was shocked or upset by events he didn’t show it. He kept all his troubles to his dented chest, saving them for his songs, like any true artist. Arguably it was through getting expelled that he fully evolved into the Stan Snot character. It was impossible to go back to being plain Jon Whitmore.

  Stan was always an assured and confident individual. He wouldn’t let anything or anyone deflect his curiosity or intelligence, about identity, life or art. Call it quiet arrogance, if you want. In this way I admired and learnt from him.

  Growing up in the same street, Jon Whitmore and I had been antagonistic. Maybe childhood rivalries are petty, yet they stick in the memory and can mark a relationship. Somehow the punk thing brought us together. We’d found common cause. Even though punks posed as completely juvenile, we were growing up. Snot was became his own man, as any lead guitarist should be. Then one evening:

  ‘What did you think of the band, Bottle?’

  ‘What’d I think? You got to take it further. It’s more than just a laugh now.’