kiNgS oF tHe wilD FRoNtiEr
Kevin and Barry got off the bus, a proper red London jobby that greatly impressed Kevin, being from Milton Keynes and all, and they strutted meaningfully down the Kings Road in Chelsea that bright August day. It was an extremely stylish area, lingering in a swinging Sixties era comedown, replete with fading facades, decadent doorway designs, swanky frontages and salacious window displays. They came to the place that Barry had told Kevin so much about, the swankiest, most salacious and decadent of them all.
"Here it is! SEX!"
The name stood out in giant, pink canvas embossed letters that hung above the doorway. It was a bold, emphatic statement, not fusty like some of the more shady Soho establishments nearby could be. This was a legend with danger emblazoned across it, daring the customers to creep inside. Kevin and Barry did so, although Kevin was quite hesitant, and took some cajoling by Barry to venture inwards.
"Oi oi! Bit of an eye-opener, ain't it?!" drawled Barry, and drooled.
They swept into the shop, Kevin goggle-eyed and open-mouthed like his goldfish Wilbur, gaping at the peculiar gear that was on display. There was odd-looking garb and trinkets were everywhere and writing scrawled on the wall, Kevin later found out from the S.C.U.M. Manifesto by Valerie Solanis, the woman who shot Andy Warhol. Everyone’s a critic.
"My oh my, what scruffy little scabs do we have here then?" intoned a scarecrow-like figure skulking in a corner.
"Piss off, Malcolm!" spat Barry, cheekily. He knew he liked receiving the insults really. Barry turned to Kevin, who looked a little shocked at this abrupt, abrasive language.
"Don't worry, it's just for show. Bra-vado, tha's all it is."
"If I talked like that to a shop-keeper in Milton Keynes I'd get a clip round the ear and ejected from the premises sharpish!"
"So who's this nasty little toerag you've brought in tow?"
"Malcolm, this is Kevin, me cousin. Kevin, this is Malcolm, a whingin’ old git."
"Hello," proffered Kevin.
"Charmed, I'm sure," returned Malcolm, observing him closely. Malcolm’s hair was like Wurzel Gummidge after a dose of shock therapy.
"Kev's gonna be an art student, like you was Malcolm!" spluttered Barry.
"Is that so? A dabbler, eh?! Well, it's got potential," he muttered, then flustered off to another corner of the shop to busy himself with a display of what looked like crocodile clips.
"'Ere, Kev, take a gander at this!"
Barry had picked up and put on a rubberwear mask and was starting to zip the mouthpiece up when suddenly, from out of the back storeroom emerged a female figure who flew at the pair in a furious storm.
"Who on God's dear Earth is this? What are ya doing in my shop? Are you going to buy anything, huh?! Because if you are, we might not want to sell it to the likes of you! Hey! Take that off! Somebody might want to buy it after you've used it!"
"I hear these old pervs'd probably pay extra for that!"
"We do not cater for, "these old pervs", as you put it, we have an entirely sophisticated clientele I will have you know!"
"Kevin, this is Vivienne. She owns the shop with Malcolm. She's the fashion designer. She's from up North."
"Oh, hello. You've got some, er, nice clothes."
"Nice?!” shrieked Ms Westwood, “They're not nice! They're exclusive!"
“So,” murmured Barry to Kevin, “Seen anything you like?”
“Hmm, that t-shirt with the cowboys on it is, erm, interesting… Nice pistols. The price tag's rather steep though. You could probably make these for a tenth of the price yourself!”
“Sssshhh! Don’t let them hear you say that!”
Kevin had been given a small allowance by his parents, but nowhere near enough to cover any of this kit, and this kit didn’t cover much at all. Hardly anything was left to the imagination.
"I've seen something I like," whispered Barry, nodding towards the shop stewardess, "That's Jordan. She's a stunner!"
"You mean she bops people on the head?"
"Wouldn't put it past her. She could bop with me any day of the night!"
"You filthy sod!"
Jordon was a striking, startling figure, a cross between the Bride of Frankenstein and Ilsa, She Wolf of The SS.
“Alright Jord?”
“Piss off!”
At this, the door swung open and a group of surly lads sauntered in. Malcolm ducked behind a display stand, peeping out precariously to see what was about to occur. These yobs carried about them a distinct air of menace, and instinctively took an instant dislike to Kevin.
"’oo's this scrotesack ‘ere then?!"
"Leave him John," stepped in Barry, "’e's me cousin, Kevin, from Milton Keynes. ‘e's just moved ‘ere, so I'm showin’ ‘im around."
This would have sounded quite tough, had it not been for the fact that Barry was still wearing the gimp mask. The scrawny kid that he was addressing, John, plastered a plastic smile across his face in a practised, thinly-disguised sneer. For some reason his hair was an unusual hue of green, that made him look a bit like an angry spring onion.
"Oh, Kevin, how very rude of me! I do hope you enjoy your stay in merry old London Town. It is a wonderful place where the streets are paved with gold, or so they say, but it's more like piss if you ask me," leered the uncouth youth in a voice akin to a groaning corpse, his teeth all decayed. He was a thin, wiry slip of a boy, with a mean glint in his eye.
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wHATcHa gOnNa DO aBoUT It?
Kevin approached the rehearsal room on Denmark Road with trepidation. He knocked. Nobody answered. The evening breeze blew. He looked down the street. Leaves leapt in spiralling whorls. Somebody was walking a small dog.
“Come on Scampi.”
"Not a very appetising meal topping," thought Kevin, “Then again, it‘s not far from tartar sauce…"
Footsteps finally approached from within. The door was carefully answered, and the fuzzy-mopped head of Malcolm McLaren popped out.
“Yes?! Who is it?! Ohhh, it’s you! Sculpture Boy. What’s that you got there?”
“A case of beer.”
“Well, in that case you better come in!”
Malcolm ushered him brusquely inside. The place had scuff marks all along the walls and the carpets were mostly worn bare. Still, it was a kind of musician's haven, a living and breathing example of modern day Tin Pan Alley. Kevin could faintly pick out a din emerging from a tucked away room upstairs. They both ventured up into Malcolm's murky lair.
"We have a visitor," squawked Malcolm to the band, who temporarily brought their rehearsal to a screeching halt.
"I come bearing beer!" hooted Kevin. The group cheered.
"About fuckin’ time! I'm fuckin’ parched!" barked the neatly-coiffed Steve, throwing down his instrument.
He snatched up one of the cans, cracked it open and slurped it down, all in one, then crumpled it in one hand and chucked it aside, erupting in an enormous belch.
"Nice work. Now, let's get back playing! What we gonna do?"
"’ow about that new one Johnny's written?"
"Aniseed In The UK?"
"It's Anarchy Glen you dunce! Get to the back of the class!"
"Alright, Bertrand."
"Come on..."
Steve plunged into the opening riff that he'd come up with for Anarchy In The UK. It tore along at a searing pace. Kev handed out more beers. Johnny hooted maniacally, screeching out the lyrics, his voice like an ice-scraper scratching down a window. Kevin couldn't believe what he was hearing. When it stopped, Kevin was enraptured by what he’d experienced. This was good. Rough, but good. The others grabbed a beer, cracked them open and glugged them down.
"I don't really like it. The words are a bit, y’know, blunt."
"Drop dead, Glen. You're really Dullsville, you know that?"
"Sod off."
“What ya gonna do about it?!”
With that, they kicked in to a cover of the Small Faces' Whatcha Gonna Do About It? Johnny had some trouble remembering the words.
"It's no good. I don't know it. I don’t know the words! It’s ridicularse!"
Paul was getting more and more frustrated. Eventually, he slammed the drumsticks down and stormed out.
"That's it, I'm leaving! ‘ere and the band!"
A palpable air of hostility descended on the room. The beer probably didn't help much.
“Well, get out then, we don’t need ya!”
“’old ‘on John! We do need ‘im, ‘e’s our drummer, remember?”
“We can get others. ‘e ain’t unique. Go on then, sod off!”
Paul turned and left. Kevin rushed out to grab Paul in the hallway and drag him back, as he felt partly responsible.
“That sounded good. Really good! Better than that! Really, really good! You can’t quit now! You’re just on the edge of something great!”
"'e's such a wanker! ‘e harangues everyone, but don't remember 'is bits 'imself!"
"He's probably just putting up a front, because he's nervous that you'll kick him out or something."
"Well, ‘e should! 'e's fuckin’ useless!"
"Come on, Paul. Give it another chance, if not for John, then for, er..." Kevin had to scratch around in his head for something relevant that wouldn’t just make Paul sneer and turn away, "For rock 'n' roll."
Paul glared at him, he wasn’t expecting that.
"What good can a bunch of losers like us do for rock 'n' roll?"
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GOTtA kEEp A-rOckIn’
To kick things off on the gig front in the New Year, Kevin took Julie and Barry to see his new pals The Sex Pistols play at the High Wycombe College of Education, supporting none other than '60s cult rock act 'Screaming' Lord Sutch. At least, he thought that's what they called him.
Kevin and Barry met the Pistols at the back of the venue, glaring on.
"Alright? 'appy New Year and all that bollocks!" chirped Glen.
"Yeah," slurred Kevin, "You ready to play tonight?"
"Nah, not at all."
"Great! It’s nice to know you're suitably under-prepared."
"Like your mum’s fuckin’ Christmas turkey, mate! Gobble gobble!"
Seemingly from out of the shadows, two unkempt, gawky-looking mod-mopped guys approached.
“Alright? You're The Sex Pistols, ain’t ya?”
“Yes we are. Isn't that obvious? Do we look like the catering firm? 'oo are you, anyway? Ya wanna make something of it?” spat Johnny vituperately.
“Actually, we do, yeah!"
The two sides stiffened slightly, sensing a possible ruckus, but the googly lad continued.
"We wanna start a band and do like what you're doin’, bot different like.”
Kevin couldn't quite place the accent, but knew it was from somewhere up north. He'd seen Coronation Street on Granada TV, that was where he recognised it from - Manchester.
“Really? 'ow’d you 'ear abaht us?”
“That bit in Sounds when ya wrecked Eddie and the Hot Rods' equipment an’ said that you weren't interested in making music as much as causing chaos!”
“Ah, right! Somebody is paying attention then?”
"Yeah, we're doin' our own thing like that up in Manchester like, and we wan’ed to see if you were like the real deal or not. Like."
"Really now? Well, we'll 'ave to leave that for you to decide."
"I'm ‘oward, by the way. ‘oward Trafford, this is me mate Pete McNeish."
"Alright, cocker?"
“Whaddidee call me?!!”
“I’s alright, 'e’s just bein’ affectionate. And this ‘ere’s our good mate Rich Boon who’s putting us up for the night."
"'ello."
"'ullo."
"So, ya gonna smash anything this evening then?"
"Probably. It’d be borin’ otherwise, wouldn’t it?"
"Excellent! Look forward to it! See ya after."
When Julie arrived Kevin went over to greet her. They kissed nervously, unsure of doing it in public in front of a load of people, casting askance glances around the room, even though nobody was probably paying attention anyway.
Shortly after 'Screaming' Lord Sutch made his stage entrance by emerging out of a coffin, no less. This had the attendees howling with laughter, it was so kitsch it was unbelievable. Sutch did some barnstorming songs about fast cars, loose women, Dracula and Jack The Ripper, all done very tastefully, and with tongue firmly in cheek, of course. He was a bit of an icon on the music scene, having earned his wings way back when, and kept the audiences amused for over a decade with his wayward warblings. Barry had been gone for a bit, Kevin just leaned against a post while Julie looked on in rapt attention. Barry returned with two ladies, one on each arm.
“'ey Kev! I want ya ta meet some new friends o’ mine! This is Scarlet and Trixie. Raar, I’m a Love Brontosaurus!”
“Ok Barry! Pleased to meet you, ladies.”
They grinned cheekily, every bit the Carry On clichés you’d expect.
“Alright darlin’? ‘e’s a pretty one, ain’t ‘e?”
“That’s me cousin, Kev. Now, I don’t want you to go man-handling him, 'e’s taken.”
“I’d manhandle an' take ‘im wherever ‘e wanted!”
"Ah, don't bovver, you both wanna get wiv The Dicklodocus!"
Kevin wasn't sure where the quaint dinosaur imagery had sprung from, but it seemed to be keeping Barry's new friends amused. Barry seemed to be more interested in them than the music as it happened, and who could really blame him if it wasn't his thing? The Pistols jumped onto the stage and jostled into position.
“I’m like a bull in the heifer!” groaned Barry.
“You’re talking a load of bull as usual, Baz!”
"What is this load of bloody racket?!" squealed Trixie.
“Racket?! This is top class!” roared Kevin.
“It’s a bloody atrocious almighty din!”
During their set, Johnny managed to damage the microphone that belonged to Lord Sutch. There had been a big scuffle on the stage, with Sutch's roadies having to be held off from flattening Rotten by Steve's friend Big Jim. Afterwards John had the barefaced cheek to claim that he'd done no such thing, even though it was in full sight of everyone.
“It weren't me!" he wailed, "It were Sutch and Sutch!”
Ron Watts, one of the organisers, a large, barrel-chested man, and 'Screaming' Lord Sutch just looked at Lydon, then back at each other, and simultaneously erupted into laughter.
"You got somefing, lad," enthused Ron.
"I'm getting it seen to," retorted Johnny.
"I've got a venue on Oxford Street. It's called The 100 Club. I'd like you to come play there sometime."
"Really? A gig?!"
"A residence, no less."
The band gawped. After the unmitigated disaster and carnage that had previously ensued, they couldn't believe what they were hearing.
"A residence? Like, a permanent gig?"
"Yep. I'd like to offer you boys a special opportunity. I like chaos, and I can see that you've got it in truckloads. I'm rather bored of the tedious, sincere and self-indulgent twaddle that's around at the moment. We need to inject some excitement into the proceedings. So, you wanna come out to play?"
"Too right!"
"Great! You're on!"
Howard and Pete overheard this conversation. They knew that these guys were onto something, and wanted a slice of the pie too. They were staying with their pal Rich who was studying art in Reading, and went back with him for the night to his digs, where they discussed what they'd just seen into the early hours.
"Man, that was hot!"
"Too right! There's finally some direction! summat to do! Summat we can be involved in that nobody else is doing! So you in this for real?"
“Yeah, you?”
“Yeah!”
They saw the Pistols play again the next day and in their heads began mapping out some real possibilities of what astonishing things could follow.
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nOISe nOiSE NoIse
In a small rehearsal studio in a disused church hall that doubled-up as a gay club just off Lisson Grove in West London were a group provisionally labelled The Masters Of The Backside, featuring a young girl on guitar who was on vacation from America named Chrissie Hynde, who’d worked for a bit as an assistant at Malcolm and Vivienne’s shop. She had met up with Brian James of London SS, Tor (Rot spelt backwards, and also some kind of small hill)'s Chris 'Rat Scabies' Millar, and his goofy pal Ray Burns who was out on loan from Johnny Moped. It was McLaren who had brought this disparate bunch of rakish waifs together, and there was one final addition to be made, or perhaps that should be two? Malcolm ushered a pair of eerie-looking singers down the steps, ominously.
"These, my pretties, are Dave and Dave, The Two Daves if you will. They will be singing for you today and tomorrow, and at the end of the two days, I will pick a singer for you."
"Hello, I'm Dave Zero."
"Hello, I'm Dave Vanian."
The mob passed glances between themselves. These Daves were dressed almost entirely in negative, like some kind of b-movie horror film reject Doppelgangers. Vanian stood in a neat black bow-tie, black hair, heavy eye-shadow and dark suit, while Zero was the polar opposite, with white, short hair and completely white, dazzlingly dapper clothes. It was all very peculiar.
The group ran through a few cover versions, such as 'I Can't Control Myself' by The Troggs. Vanian darted about the room, flitting bat-like amongst the church hall rehearsal room equipment, never setting down for a moment. Zero did much the same, wending his way round with the mic, zigzagging from corner to corner.
They broke for lunch.
"So what do you do?" enquired Chrissie to Vanian.
"Actually, I'm a grave-digger," chimed Dave V.
"It figures."
Vanian had discovered an old church organ and began spookily (playing) away on it. Burns had gone out for a nibble and Scabies picket at his scabs.
Practise continued after lunch and more tunes simmered along. Eventually, towards the end of the afternoon, Malcolm turned up and heard what they had to offer. He couldn't quite get an angle on it.
“No. There’s no money in it. It’s not commercially viable!”
“But we sounded great,” opined Burns, “And I don’t wanna go back to cleaning bogs.”
“Yeah,” moaned Chrissie, “We sounded way cool. I got a name too - Mike Hunt’s Honourable Discharge.”
“What? Thoroughly repellent!”
“Well, that’s never stopped you before!”
* * *
letSaGEtaBiTArOCkiN’!
The Pistols were booked in to play at The Nashville supporting of the 101’ers on 23rd April 1976. Kevin came along for the sound-check, to see if he could help out. The sun shone through the windows as dust particles played in the warm spring air. Kev sat next to Joe Strummer as he watched the Sex Pistols tuning up and doing their sound-check. What he saw blew Joe's mind. He watched them intently.
"Not bad, are they?" whispered Kevin.
"Not bad? They're fucking so far ahead they're in a different time zone!"
Malcolm hopped onto the stage and waddled over to John.
"So, you want some new clothes from the shop, eh? You do a decent gig tonight and I'll give you whatever you want, right?"
"Nice," muttered Joe under his breath. Little did he know Malcolm would be taking it out of their wages later.
The band hammered out their wares. Joe was left breath-taken. It was a true moment of rock epiphany. When he went out with his band to run through their set, he was a veritable husk, an empty shell, he knew that he was living a lie, playing an old sound, and wanted to get off there and splash his face with water to wake up and get a grip on the new reality that he'd just seen. He looked in the fractured mirror of the pub bogs and knew that he had an extremely huge and difficult decision to make.
In the audience that night were various members of the newly formed punk fraternity - Bromley boy Tony James, art pirate Stuart Goddard who now for some reason had taken to calling himself Adam Ant, a tall, poker-faced bloke named Vic Goddard, a guy named Shane from Ireland who was wearing a Union Jack t-shirt, Mick Jones, Paul Simenon and Sid. Sid looked the part. His hair was immaculately spiked. It turned out that his mum Anne had found him with his head in the oven earlier in the day.
"What are you doing?!" she screamed.
"Mum! It's just me 'air!" he cried back.
He was wearing a lurex drape jacket and drainpipe trousers, sneering at every passer-by, actively looking for trouble. He adored the Pistols, and hung onto their every action.
Also in the audience was the glamorous, but moody Brian James. Kevin was unsure if he was any relation to Tony, but guessed not. Brian had just that moment bumped into his erstwhile associate Rat Scabies.
"Hey, what're you doin' 'ere?!"
"Watchin' the band you 'nana! What ya fink I'm doin'? 'avin' a bath?!"
"Maybe! You facking need one! Anyway, I'm on the look-out for potential band members. You in?"
"Yeah, right enough!"
Brian nudged Scabies and pointed at Sid, "'Ere, 'ow abaht gettin' that wally over there for a singer?"
"'e's certainly got the look."
"Yeah. Go ask 'im if 'e'll sing wiv us."
"Nah, you go!"
"Ohh, alright then."
Brian prowled up to Sid.
"Whaddayou want? Lookin' for a broken conk?!"
"Nah, I'm lookin' for a singer, actually. Wanna join our band?"
"Oh, er, maybe... I'll 'ave to ‘ave a fink abaht it."
"Well, don't do yerself an injury! We're practisin’ tomorra, come down if ya fancy it."
Brian gave Sid his phone number. At this moment, across the threshold strode Dave Vanian, replete with black cape and immaculate vampire look.
Brian strolled back to Scabies, "Hey! There's that Dave bloke who we played with in the Masters of the Backside. He's a snappy dresser an' no mistake. You fink 'e'd be alright?"
"There's no 'arm in asking 'im eivver, is there? I'll go this time."
Rat approached Vanian.
"'ello there Mr Vanian. 'ow's it goin'?"
"Rather gloomy, as usual."
"Good to 'ear it mate! Anyway, me ol' mucker, we're 'avin' a practise tomorra night. If ya wanna come, just let us know!"
"Well, I was going to be sitting in a graveyard, but that sounds a bit more interesting. I'll see you there."
The Pistols were kicking out the jams. Steve recognised various people in the crowd from the High Wycombe gig who had had long hair and flares before, but had now cut it short and bought bondage trousers and the whole kit and caboodle. Barry himself had the full blue spikes, safety pin through the cheek, torn up jumper and drainpipes, the trousers that is, not real drainpipes, although that wouldn't have gone amiss in the environment. Barry wasn’t merely a fashion victim, he was a fashion massacre. Punk should have been about breaking the rules, yet it seemed intent on setting its own rigid ones up. Spuddy Norman was far more inventive, and had on a hessian potato sack, which he said represented the mass commercialisation of society.
“Spuddy Norman,” yelled Kevin, “You look like a sack of spuds!”
“Why thank you,” replied Spuddy Norman.
The Pistols totally ripped it. Their blistering songs rumbled along at supersonic speed. Johnny was wearing a torn up jumper and shirt held together with safety-pins and Steve had a t-shirt from the shop that made him look as if he had a pair of women's breasts. Still, the audience didn't really get going for a while. Vivienne was getting annoyed at the general state of apathy, so decided to spice things up a little. Kevin stood in the front row with Julie so he could get a decent view of the proceedings. All of a sudden, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Vivienne slap Julie right around the chops.
"Wha'd you do that for?!" he remonstrated.
At this point Malcolm lumbered in, arms windmilling, and caught Kevin with a mean left hook, sending him sprawling into the wake of the crowd. Lightbulbs flashed as the press took photographs. Sid, who was standing at the side of the stage, jeered things on, leering lustily.
Julie and Vivienne continued their cat fight, hissing and clawing at one another. It took a few of the crowd to prize them apart and hold them back until they had calmed down.
“She slapped me for nothing, the shit!” Julie spat, still flailing and lashing out. Kevin tried to placate her, but remained stunned and smarting from Malcolm's attack.
“I know, what was that all about? She’s an animal!”
“I’ll show her what an animal can really do!”
“Don’t. Don’t. It’s what she wants! She’s provoking ya! Don't rise to it.”
A member of the audience ambled over. He said his name was Neil Tennant and he wrote for the NME, but also wanted to start his own band, only didn’t have a name for it yet. He gave the Pistols a rather dismissive commentary in his note to the NME, stating, "If the Sex
After the fracas had calmed down, the 101ers came on and did their thing. The excitement from earlier left a gaping gulf of expectation. Joe gave it all that he'd got, but you could tell something was the matter. The passion had seeped away. He left the stage, despondently.
The next day Joe left the band and didn't look back.
The next day, Sid didn't turn up for the rehearsal with Rat, Brian and Ray, but Vanian did. They didn't look back. A thunderstorm crackled overhead, and as they were scouring through the TV listings in the newspaper checking out old movies that were being reshown, something in which they shared a common fascination, they chanced upon one that summed them and their situation up quite neatly - The Damned. A clap of lightning could be heard in the distance. Sid didn't look back either. Then again, that was just Sid. Kevin, however, was looking in a lot of directions.
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If you want more, you'll just have to wait until the book's out!
"Here it is! SEX!"
The name stood out in giant, pink canvas embossed letters that hung above the doorway. It was a bold, emphatic statement, not fusty like some of the more shady Soho establishments nearby could be. This was a legend with danger emblazoned across it, daring the customers to creep inside. Kevin and Barry did so, although Kevin was quite hesitant, and took some cajoling by Barry to venture inwards.
"Oi oi! Bit of an eye-opener, ain't it?!" drawled Barry, and drooled.
They swept into the shop, Kevin goggle-eyed and open-mouthed like his goldfish Wilbur, gaping at the peculiar gear that was on display. There was odd-looking garb and trinkets were everywhere and writing scrawled on the wall, Kevin later found out from the S.C.U.M. Manifesto by Valerie Solanis, the woman who shot Andy Warhol. Everyone’s a critic.
"My oh my, what scruffy little scabs do we have here then?" intoned a scarecrow-like figure skulking in a corner.
"Piss off, Malcolm!" spat Barry, cheekily. He knew he liked receiving the insults really. Barry turned to Kevin, who looked a little shocked at this abrupt, abrasive language.
"Don't worry, it's just for show. Bra-vado, tha's all it is."
"If I talked like that to a shop-keeper in Milton Keynes I'd get a clip round the ear and ejected from the premises sharpish!"
"So who's this nasty little toerag you've brought in tow?"
"Malcolm, this is Kevin, me cousin. Kevin, this is Malcolm, a whingin’ old git."
"Hello," proffered Kevin.
"Charmed, I'm sure," returned Malcolm, observing him closely. Malcolm’s hair was like Wurzel Gummidge after a dose of shock therapy.
"Kev's gonna be an art student, like you was Malcolm!" spluttered Barry.
"Is that so? A dabbler, eh?! Well, it's got potential," he muttered, then flustered off to another corner of the shop to busy himself with a display of what looked like crocodile clips.
"'Ere, Kev, take a gander at this!"
Barry had picked up and put on a rubberwear mask and was starting to zip the mouthpiece up when suddenly, from out of the back storeroom emerged a female figure who flew at the pair in a furious storm.
"Who on God's dear Earth is this? What are ya doing in my shop? Are you going to buy anything, huh?! Because if you are, we might not want to sell it to the likes of you! Hey! Take that off! Somebody might want to buy it after you've used it!"
"I hear these old pervs'd probably pay extra for that!"
"We do not cater for, "these old pervs", as you put it, we have an entirely sophisticated clientele I will have you know!"
"Kevin, this is Vivienne. She owns the shop with Malcolm. She's the fashion designer. She's from up North."
"Oh, hello. You've got some, er, nice clothes."
"Nice?!” shrieked Ms Westwood, “They're not nice! They're exclusive!"
“So,” murmured Barry to Kevin, “Seen anything you like?”
“Hmm, that t-shirt with the cowboys on it is, erm, interesting… Nice pistols. The price tag's rather steep though. You could probably make these for a tenth of the price yourself!”
“Sssshhh! Don’t let them hear you say that!”
Kevin had been given a small allowance by his parents, but nowhere near enough to cover any of this kit, and this kit didn’t cover much at all. Hardly anything was left to the imagination.
"I've seen something I like," whispered Barry, nodding towards the shop stewardess, "That's Jordan. She's a stunner!"
"You mean she bops people on the head?"
"Wouldn't put it past her. She could bop with me any day of the night!"
"You filthy sod!"
Jordon was a striking, startling figure, a cross between the Bride of Frankenstein and Ilsa, She Wolf of The SS.
“Alright Jord?”
“Piss off!”
At this, the door swung open and a group of surly lads sauntered in. Malcolm ducked behind a display stand, peeping out precariously to see what was about to occur. These yobs carried about them a distinct air of menace, and instinctively took an instant dislike to Kevin.
"’oo's this scrotesack ‘ere then?!"
"Leave him John," stepped in Barry, "’e's me cousin, Kevin, from Milton Keynes. ‘e's just moved ‘ere, so I'm showin’ ‘im around."
This would have sounded quite tough, had it not been for the fact that Barry was still wearing the gimp mask. The scrawny kid that he was addressing, John, plastered a plastic smile across his face in a practised, thinly-disguised sneer. For some reason his hair was an unusual hue of green, that made him look a bit like an angry spring onion.
"Oh, Kevin, how very rude of me! I do hope you enjoy your stay in merry old London Town. It is a wonderful place where the streets are paved with gold, or so they say, but it's more like piss if you ask me," leered the uncouth youth in a voice akin to a groaning corpse, his teeth all decayed. He was a thin, wiry slip of a boy, with a mean glint in his eye.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
wHATcHa gOnNa DO aBoUT It?
Kevin approached the rehearsal room on Denmark Road with trepidation. He knocked. Nobody answered. The evening breeze blew. He looked down the street. Leaves leapt in spiralling whorls. Somebody was walking a small dog.
“Come on Scampi.”
"Not a very appetising meal topping," thought Kevin, “Then again, it‘s not far from tartar sauce…"
Footsteps finally approached from within. The door was carefully answered, and the fuzzy-mopped head of Malcolm McLaren popped out.
“Yes?! Who is it?! Ohhh, it’s you! Sculpture Boy. What’s that you got there?”
“A case of beer.”
“Well, in that case you better come in!”
Malcolm ushered him brusquely inside. The place had scuff marks all along the walls and the carpets were mostly worn bare. Still, it was a kind of musician's haven, a living and breathing example of modern day Tin Pan Alley. Kevin could faintly pick out a din emerging from a tucked away room upstairs. They both ventured up into Malcolm's murky lair.
"We have a visitor," squawked Malcolm to the band, who temporarily brought their rehearsal to a screeching halt.
"I come bearing beer!" hooted Kevin. The group cheered.
"About fuckin’ time! I'm fuckin’ parched!" barked the neatly-coiffed Steve, throwing down his instrument.
He snatched up one of the cans, cracked it open and slurped it down, all in one, then crumpled it in one hand and chucked it aside, erupting in an enormous belch.
"Nice work. Now, let's get back playing! What we gonna do?"
"’ow about that new one Johnny's written?"
"Aniseed In The UK?"
"It's Anarchy Glen you dunce! Get to the back of the class!"
"Alright, Bertrand."
"Come on..."
Steve plunged into the opening riff that he'd come up with for Anarchy In The UK. It tore along at a searing pace. Kev handed out more beers. Johnny hooted maniacally, screeching out the lyrics, his voice like an ice-scraper scratching down a window. Kevin couldn't believe what he was hearing. When it stopped, Kevin was enraptured by what he’d experienced. This was good. Rough, but good. The others grabbed a beer, cracked them open and glugged them down.
"I don't really like it. The words are a bit, y’know, blunt."
"Drop dead, Glen. You're really Dullsville, you know that?"
"Sod off."
“What ya gonna do about it?!”
With that, they kicked in to a cover of the Small Faces' Whatcha Gonna Do About It? Johnny had some trouble remembering the words.
"It's no good. I don't know it. I don’t know the words! It’s ridicularse!"
Paul was getting more and more frustrated. Eventually, he slammed the drumsticks down and stormed out.
"That's it, I'm leaving! ‘ere and the band!"
A palpable air of hostility descended on the room. The beer probably didn't help much.
“Well, get out then, we don’t need ya!”
“’old ‘on John! We do need ‘im, ‘e’s our drummer, remember?”
“We can get others. ‘e ain’t unique. Go on then, sod off!”
Paul turned and left. Kevin rushed out to grab Paul in the hallway and drag him back, as he felt partly responsible.
“That sounded good. Really good! Better than that! Really, really good! You can’t quit now! You’re just on the edge of something great!”
"'e's such a wanker! ‘e harangues everyone, but don't remember 'is bits 'imself!"
"He's probably just putting up a front, because he's nervous that you'll kick him out or something."
"Well, ‘e should! 'e's fuckin’ useless!"
"Come on, Paul. Give it another chance, if not for John, then for, er..." Kevin had to scratch around in his head for something relevant that wouldn’t just make Paul sneer and turn away, "For rock 'n' roll."
Paul glared at him, he wasn’t expecting that.
"What good can a bunch of losers like us do for rock 'n' roll?"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
GOTtA kEEp A-rOckIn’
To kick things off on the gig front in the New Year, Kevin took Julie and Barry to see his new pals The Sex Pistols play at the High Wycombe College of Education, supporting none other than '60s cult rock act 'Screaming' Lord Sutch. At least, he thought that's what they called him.
Kevin and Barry met the Pistols at the back of the venue, glaring on.
"Alright? 'appy New Year and all that bollocks!" chirped Glen.
"Yeah," slurred Kevin, "You ready to play tonight?"
"Nah, not at all."
"Great! It’s nice to know you're suitably under-prepared."
"Like your mum’s fuckin’ Christmas turkey, mate! Gobble gobble!"
Seemingly from out of the shadows, two unkempt, gawky-looking mod-mopped guys approached.
“Alright? You're The Sex Pistols, ain’t ya?”
“Yes we are. Isn't that obvious? Do we look like the catering firm? 'oo are you, anyway? Ya wanna make something of it?” spat Johnny vituperately.
“Actually, we do, yeah!"
The two sides stiffened slightly, sensing a possible ruckus, but the googly lad continued.
"We wanna start a band and do like what you're doin’, bot different like.”
Kevin couldn't quite place the accent, but knew it was from somewhere up north. He'd seen Coronation Street on Granada TV, that was where he recognised it from - Manchester.
“Really? 'ow’d you 'ear abaht us?”
“That bit in Sounds when ya wrecked Eddie and the Hot Rods' equipment an’ said that you weren't interested in making music as much as causing chaos!”
“Ah, right! Somebody is paying attention then?”
"Yeah, we're doin' our own thing like that up in Manchester like, and we wan’ed to see if you were like the real deal or not. Like."
"Really now? Well, we'll 'ave to leave that for you to decide."
"I'm ‘oward, by the way. ‘oward Trafford, this is me mate Pete McNeish."
"Alright, cocker?"
“Whaddidee call me?!!”
“I’s alright, 'e’s just bein’ affectionate. And this ‘ere’s our good mate Rich Boon who’s putting us up for the night."
"'ello."
"'ullo."
"So, ya gonna smash anything this evening then?"
"Probably. It’d be borin’ otherwise, wouldn’t it?"
"Excellent! Look forward to it! See ya after."
When Julie arrived Kevin went over to greet her. They kissed nervously, unsure of doing it in public in front of a load of people, casting askance glances around the room, even though nobody was probably paying attention anyway.
Shortly after 'Screaming' Lord Sutch made his stage entrance by emerging out of a coffin, no less. This had the attendees howling with laughter, it was so kitsch it was unbelievable. Sutch did some barnstorming songs about fast cars, loose women, Dracula and Jack The Ripper, all done very tastefully, and with tongue firmly in cheek, of course. He was a bit of an icon on the music scene, having earned his wings way back when, and kept the audiences amused for over a decade with his wayward warblings. Barry had been gone for a bit, Kevin just leaned against a post while Julie looked on in rapt attention. Barry returned with two ladies, one on each arm.
“'ey Kev! I want ya ta meet some new friends o’ mine! This is Scarlet and Trixie. Raar, I’m a Love Brontosaurus!”
“Ok Barry! Pleased to meet you, ladies.”
They grinned cheekily, every bit the Carry On clichés you’d expect.
“Alright darlin’? ‘e’s a pretty one, ain’t ‘e?”
“That’s me cousin, Kev. Now, I don’t want you to go man-handling him, 'e’s taken.”
“I’d manhandle an' take ‘im wherever ‘e wanted!”
"Ah, don't bovver, you both wanna get wiv The Dicklodocus!"
Kevin wasn't sure where the quaint dinosaur imagery had sprung from, but it seemed to be keeping Barry's new friends amused. Barry seemed to be more interested in them than the music as it happened, and who could really blame him if it wasn't his thing? The Pistols jumped onto the stage and jostled into position.
“I’m like a bull in the heifer!” groaned Barry.
“You’re talking a load of bull as usual, Baz!”
"What is this load of bloody racket?!" squealed Trixie.
“Racket?! This is top class!” roared Kevin.
“It’s a bloody atrocious almighty din!”
During their set, Johnny managed to damage the microphone that belonged to Lord Sutch. There had been a big scuffle on the stage, with Sutch's roadies having to be held off from flattening Rotten by Steve's friend Big Jim. Afterwards John had the barefaced cheek to claim that he'd done no such thing, even though it was in full sight of everyone.
“It weren't me!" he wailed, "It were Sutch and Sutch!”
Ron Watts, one of the organisers, a large, barrel-chested man, and 'Screaming' Lord Sutch just looked at Lydon, then back at each other, and simultaneously erupted into laughter.
"You got somefing, lad," enthused Ron.
"I'm getting it seen to," retorted Johnny.
"I've got a venue on Oxford Street. It's called The 100 Club. I'd like you to come play there sometime."
"Really? A gig?!"
"A residence, no less."
The band gawped. After the unmitigated disaster and carnage that had previously ensued, they couldn't believe what they were hearing.
"A residence? Like, a permanent gig?"
"Yep. I'd like to offer you boys a special opportunity. I like chaos, and I can see that you've got it in truckloads. I'm rather bored of the tedious, sincere and self-indulgent twaddle that's around at the moment. We need to inject some excitement into the proceedings. So, you wanna come out to play?"
"Too right!"
"Great! You're on!"
Howard and Pete overheard this conversation. They knew that these guys were onto something, and wanted a slice of the pie too. They were staying with their pal Rich who was studying art in Reading, and went back with him for the night to his digs, where they discussed what they'd just seen into the early hours.
"Man, that was hot!"
"Too right! There's finally some direction! summat to do! Summat we can be involved in that nobody else is doing! So you in this for real?"
“Yeah, you?”
“Yeah!”
They saw the Pistols play again the next day and in their heads began mapping out some real possibilities of what astonishing things could follow.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
nOISe nOiSE NoIse
In a small rehearsal studio in a disused church hall that doubled-up as a gay club just off Lisson Grove in West London were a group provisionally labelled The Masters Of The Backside, featuring a young girl on guitar who was on vacation from America named Chrissie Hynde, who’d worked for a bit as an assistant at Malcolm and Vivienne’s shop. She had met up with Brian James of London SS, Tor (Rot spelt backwards, and also some kind of small hill)'s Chris 'Rat Scabies' Millar, and his goofy pal Ray Burns who was out on loan from Johnny Moped. It was McLaren who had brought this disparate bunch of rakish waifs together, and there was one final addition to be made, or perhaps that should be two? Malcolm ushered a pair of eerie-looking singers down the steps, ominously.
"These, my pretties, are Dave and Dave, The Two Daves if you will. They will be singing for you today and tomorrow, and at the end of the two days, I will pick a singer for you."
"Hello, I'm Dave Zero."
"Hello, I'm Dave Vanian."
The mob passed glances between themselves. These Daves were dressed almost entirely in negative, like some kind of b-movie horror film reject Doppelgangers. Vanian stood in a neat black bow-tie, black hair, heavy eye-shadow and dark suit, while Zero was the polar opposite, with white, short hair and completely white, dazzlingly dapper clothes. It was all very peculiar.
The group ran through a few cover versions, such as 'I Can't Control Myself' by The Troggs. Vanian darted about the room, flitting bat-like amongst the church hall rehearsal room equipment, never setting down for a moment. Zero did much the same, wending his way round with the mic, zigzagging from corner to corner.
They broke for lunch.
"So what do you do?" enquired Chrissie to Vanian.
"Actually, I'm a grave-digger," chimed Dave V.
"It figures."
Vanian had discovered an old church organ and began spookily (playing) away on it. Burns had gone out for a nibble and Scabies picket at his scabs.
Practise continued after lunch and more tunes simmered along. Eventually, towards the end of the afternoon, Malcolm turned up and heard what they had to offer. He couldn't quite get an angle on it.
“No. There’s no money in it. It’s not commercially viable!”
“But we sounded great,” opined Burns, “And I don’t wanna go back to cleaning bogs.”
“Yeah,” moaned Chrissie, “We sounded way cool. I got a name too - Mike Hunt’s Honourable Discharge.”
“What? Thoroughly repellent!”
“Well, that’s never stopped you before!”
* * *
letSaGEtaBiTArOCkiN’!
The Pistols were booked in to play at The Nashville supporting of the 101’ers on 23rd April 1976. Kevin came along for the sound-check, to see if he could help out. The sun shone through the windows as dust particles played in the warm spring air. Kev sat next to Joe Strummer as he watched the Sex Pistols tuning up and doing their sound-check. What he saw blew Joe's mind. He watched them intently.
"Not bad, are they?" whispered Kevin.
"Not bad? They're fucking so far ahead they're in a different time zone!"
Malcolm hopped onto the stage and waddled over to John.
"So, you want some new clothes from the shop, eh? You do a decent gig tonight and I'll give you whatever you want, right?"
"Nice," muttered Joe under his breath. Little did he know Malcolm would be taking it out of their wages later.
The band hammered out their wares. Joe was left breath-taken. It was a true moment of rock epiphany. When he went out with his band to run through their set, he was a veritable husk, an empty shell, he knew that he was living a lie, playing an old sound, and wanted to get off there and splash his face with water to wake up and get a grip on the new reality that he'd just seen. He looked in the fractured mirror of the pub bogs and knew that he had an extremely huge and difficult decision to make.
In the audience that night were various members of the newly formed punk fraternity - Bromley boy Tony James, art pirate Stuart Goddard who now for some reason had taken to calling himself Adam Ant, a tall, poker-faced bloke named Vic Goddard, a guy named Shane from Ireland who was wearing a Union Jack t-shirt, Mick Jones, Paul Simenon and Sid. Sid looked the part. His hair was immaculately spiked. It turned out that his mum Anne had found him with his head in the oven earlier in the day.
"What are you doing?!" she screamed.
"Mum! It's just me 'air!" he cried back.
He was wearing a lurex drape jacket and drainpipe trousers, sneering at every passer-by, actively looking for trouble. He adored the Pistols, and hung onto their every action.
Also in the audience was the glamorous, but moody Brian James. Kevin was unsure if he was any relation to Tony, but guessed not. Brian had just that moment bumped into his erstwhile associate Rat Scabies.
"Hey, what're you doin' 'ere?!"
"Watchin' the band you 'nana! What ya fink I'm doin'? 'avin' a bath?!"
"Maybe! You facking need one! Anyway, I'm on the look-out for potential band members. You in?"
"Yeah, right enough!"
Brian nudged Scabies and pointed at Sid, "'Ere, 'ow abaht gettin' that wally over there for a singer?"
"'e's certainly got the look."
"Yeah. Go ask 'im if 'e'll sing wiv us."
"Nah, you go!"
"Ohh, alright then."
Brian prowled up to Sid.
"Whaddayou want? Lookin' for a broken conk?!"
"Nah, I'm lookin' for a singer, actually. Wanna join our band?"
"Oh, er, maybe... I'll 'ave to ‘ave a fink abaht it."
"Well, don't do yerself an injury! We're practisin’ tomorra, come down if ya fancy it."
Brian gave Sid his phone number. At this moment, across the threshold strode Dave Vanian, replete with black cape and immaculate vampire look.
Brian strolled back to Scabies, "Hey! There's that Dave bloke who we played with in the Masters of the Backside. He's a snappy dresser an' no mistake. You fink 'e'd be alright?"
"There's no 'arm in asking 'im eivver, is there? I'll go this time."
Rat approached Vanian.
"'ello there Mr Vanian. 'ow's it goin'?"
"Rather gloomy, as usual."
"Good to 'ear it mate! Anyway, me ol' mucker, we're 'avin' a practise tomorra night. If ya wanna come, just let us know!"
"Well, I was going to be sitting in a graveyard, but that sounds a bit more interesting. I'll see you there."
The Pistols were kicking out the jams. Steve recognised various people in the crowd from the High Wycombe gig who had had long hair and flares before, but had now cut it short and bought bondage trousers and the whole kit and caboodle. Barry himself had the full blue spikes, safety pin through the cheek, torn up jumper and drainpipes, the trousers that is, not real drainpipes, although that wouldn't have gone amiss in the environment. Barry wasn’t merely a fashion victim, he was a fashion massacre. Punk should have been about breaking the rules, yet it seemed intent on setting its own rigid ones up. Spuddy Norman was far more inventive, and had on a hessian potato sack, which he said represented the mass commercialisation of society.
“Spuddy Norman,” yelled Kevin, “You look like a sack of spuds!”
“Why thank you,” replied Spuddy Norman.
The Pistols totally ripped it. Their blistering songs rumbled along at supersonic speed. Johnny was wearing a torn up jumper and shirt held together with safety-pins and Steve had a t-shirt from the shop that made him look as if he had a pair of women's breasts. Still, the audience didn't really get going for a while. Vivienne was getting annoyed at the general state of apathy, so decided to spice things up a little. Kevin stood in the front row with Julie so he could get a decent view of the proceedings. All of a sudden, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Vivienne slap Julie right around the chops.
"Wha'd you do that for?!" he remonstrated.
At this point Malcolm lumbered in, arms windmilling, and caught Kevin with a mean left hook, sending him sprawling into the wake of the crowd. Lightbulbs flashed as the press took photographs. Sid, who was standing at the side of the stage, jeered things on, leering lustily.
Julie and Vivienne continued their cat fight, hissing and clawing at one another. It took a few of the crowd to prize them apart and hold them back until they had calmed down.
“She slapped me for nothing, the shit!” Julie spat, still flailing and lashing out. Kevin tried to placate her, but remained stunned and smarting from Malcolm's attack.
“I know, what was that all about? She’s an animal!”
“I’ll show her what an animal can really do!”
“Don’t. Don’t. It’s what she wants! She’s provoking ya! Don't rise to it.”
A member of the audience ambled over. He said his name was Neil Tennant and he wrote for the NME, but also wanted to start his own band, only didn’t have a name for it yet. He gave the Pistols a rather dismissive commentary in his note to the NME, stating, "If the Sex
After the fracas had calmed down, the 101ers came on and did their thing. The excitement from earlier left a gaping gulf of expectation. Joe gave it all that he'd got, but you could tell something was the matter. The passion had seeped away. He left the stage, despondently.
The next day Joe left the band and didn't look back.
The next day, Sid didn't turn up for the rehearsal with Rat, Brian and Ray, but Vanian did. They didn't look back. A thunderstorm crackled overhead, and as they were scouring through the TV listings in the newspaper checking out old movies that were being reshown, something in which they shared a common fascination, they chanced upon one that summed them and their situation up quite neatly - The Damned. A clap of lightning could be heard in the distance. Sid didn't look back either. Then again, that was just Sid. Kevin, however, was looking in a lot of directions.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
If you want more, you'll just have to wait until the book's out!