8. Rehearsals
It is Saturday, early October, and I am working on the record department, looking forward to our first fully amplified practice session tomorrow. The geriatric has just told me to get a haircut, and so I have decided to take up Amanda’s offer of a feather-cut, which is a pleasing prospect to say the least. A slight feeling of guilt crosses my mind. She is Julian’s girlfriend, so I ought not to be so jubilant at the thought.
Then just as this deliberation is trailing away, there is an answer to my prayers of the last few months. Sofia walks into the shop and heads straight towards me. I have not seen her since my first day at Strathconas. She is second in the queue, so the poor guy at the front gets short shrift as I quickly pack him off with 'Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars'. She looks taller than I remember, and with more precision than a Kodak Brownie, my eyes capture the image before me; canary clogs beneath purple velvet flares with small yellow stars, and a matching, flared-sleeve tee shirt. Her hair seems to have grown a little longer, and her eyes are even more striking, perhaps because of her suntan. She looks fantastic.
Smiling, she says, ‘Hi Tom, have you 'All the Young Dudes' LP by Mott The Hoople please?’
‘You like Mott The Hoople?’
She looks a little defensive, puckering her lips and frowning slightly. She mouths a dubious ‘yes’, before I realise she has misinterpreted the timbre of my question.
‘No, no, I mean, that’s brilliant.’ I am jabbering. ‘They’re my favourite band. Have you seen them live?’
‘Yes, in Liverpool a few months ago.’
‘The Rock and Roll Circus Tour?’
‘I think so.’
‘I was there too! Don’t you think Ian Hunter’s a brilliant front man?’ By any objective standard, I am overdoing the enthusiasm, but it is natural and instinctive.
‘Definitely,’ she agrees, and I celebrate within. She continues, ‘But I thought the crowd was very mean to that man with the funny legs in black tights.’
‘Max Wall?’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
The old music hall comic had been somewhat miscast as part of the support act for Mott’s UK tour. He went down like a pork roast at a Bar Mitzvah.
‘I saw them again a couple of weeks ago at the Stadium.’
‘Did you?’ She smiles again. She is always smiling.
‘Yes, and they were even better.’
We talk about our favourite Mott album. This is the first time I have been myself in her company, but just as the mutual love of a rock band is giving me the confidence to engage with her in a meaningful way, things go sour.
The familiar sight of Sofia’s rugged and handsome male companion at the shop entrance interrupts our conversation. He is wearing a blue lumberjack shirt, sleeves rolled up to his armpits, revealing biceps the size of footballs, though his posture is close to the starting point for a rendition of 'I’m a Little Teapot', lending him a strange, incongruous mix of camp and brawn.
He shouts, ‘Sofia, I’ll be in the car, so don’t be long.’ His tone is far from polite.
I have been lost in these moments with her, but the intervention of the shamrock Don Juan has left me reeling. “I’ll be in the car!” He’s got a bloody car! And what do I have? Well there is a shopper bike rusting in the shed at home. I suppose I could give her a ‘seater’ to the destination of her choice, perhaps Lennon’s supermarket or Sayer's the bakers. Let’s face it, only posers have a car at our age. Real guys with sensitivity have a shopper bike with a large bag on the back seat to carry useful things like a loaf or margarine, or even both... I still don’t know why I chose such a bicycle at the age of fourteen in preference to the five-speed racer all my contemporaries selected.
Even taking into account the understandable antipathy I feel towards Sofia's boyfriend, I really do think he looks a bit of a shit. He is everything I abhor in a man; yet paradoxically, he is everything I want to be, self-assured, confident, good looking. I just cannot square the circle.
Sofia notices my sudden change of mood, and her eyes penetrate mine. ‘Are you OK?’
I just mumble, ‘Fine thanks.’
‘You don’t like Danny, do you?’
Her comment jolts me. I am too inexperienced to deal with this sort of confrontation. The mind deals with the words and provides a more than adequate answer, but my mouth simply blurts out an automatic procession of denial. ‘Erm... no, no, you’ve erm got me wrong. I’m sure, erm... Danny is a nice guy.’
She places her hand over mine, the warm, delicate skin an instant cure-all for my anxieties. ‘Not as nice as you.'
Oh Christ.
I look anxiously towards the shop entrance, fearful that her boyfriend has returned to observe this act of affection, but he hasn’t, thank God. I am so emotionally constipated; I simply cannot react in the way I want to react. Nothing materialises until I say ‘Cheers.’ It is nothing short of wretched.
A bloke in NHS horn rimmed glasses is now standing behind Sofia, making it clear he wants to be served. I feel like telling him to piss off but can’t. So I am forced to finalise the Mott the Hoople transaction with her and exchange goodbyes.
‘Thanks very much Tom, see you soon,’ she says, her smile widening as she speaks.
She gives me a mini wave, and I do one in return as limp as a piece of wet cabbage. I still do not understand how she knows my name, but her use of it again makes me feel rather wonderful. I watch longingly as she weaves past the record cabinets towards the store exit, before a cough awakens me from my trance. It is the bespectacled man. I deal mechanically with his purchase in a conflicting state of confusion and ecstasy.
*
The following day we are in the van on our way to the room above the garage for rehearsals. I know I should be excited about playing together for the first time with our new gear, but I am a little fearful. Julian has just informed us that the garage is attached to a Funeral Home, and we may have to make our way through the Chapel of Repose. I have never seen a dead body before - unless you count Brian the morning after overstaying his welcome at the Hashish Pipe Travelling Fair - and I do not want to see one today. If necessary, I will simply close my eyes.
I check the top of my head and am relieved to find no bumps, remarkable given how many times it has collided with the roof of the Bedford. The van’s dodgy suspension is shocking and is like being in the ejector seat of a James Bond car. The funeral home is in central Birkenhead and comes into view on our right, a well-appointed glass fronted building set back from the main road, contrasting with the other soulless redbrick and concrete premises in the vicinity. Brian steers the vehicle through the front entrance and into a small car park.
‘How many stiffs do you think are inside?’ I am trying to mask my fear with a forced casual tone.
‘I tell you what, there’ll be one more if shit-face here doesn’t stop puffing on that crap,’ says Ged, waving his arms to clear the smoke permeating across the front bench seat of the van. ‘That’s fucking awful Brian. You’d think my granddad had just crapped himself.’
‘Sorry man, this latest batch of shit is third rate,’ he responds, inhaling a colossal drag regardless.
‘Third rate or turd rate?’ says Ged, having the last word as ever.
Peace descends as the van comes to a halt, and the four of us get out and walk across the newly laid tarmac towards the door marked 'Reception'. Unfortunately, it is Sunday and closed.
‘Hang on a minute chaps,’ says Julian. ‘I’ve just remembered that Amanda told me to use the rear entrance.’
‘You lucky bastard!’ chimes Ged.
Laughing, we trudge around to the back, where Ged knocks forcefully on a door. ‘Hello, anybody there?’
There is no answer, so he turns the handle. The door opens, and we follow him inside. Sitting behind a small desk is a security guard in full uniform, fast asleep. He is an old man, presumably earning a bit of extra cash for a pint or two.
‘Alright pal,’ shout
s Ged, ‘we’re the lads from the band. We’ve come to practice.’
The security guard does not respond. He is out for the count.
‘He’s not exactly on red alert, is he?' I shake him gently by the shoulder, whereby he collapses to the floor with a thud. ‘Bloody hell, I think he’s dead.’
‘Well he’s in the right bloody place if he is,’ says Ged with a titter.
Perhaps I am a more sensitive soul, because I am unable to join in with the laughter of the other lads. This is likely to be somebody's dad and somebody's grandfather. We look at one another wondering what to do next, until we hear the sound of a muffled snigger, which then bursts into an all-out guffaw. We turn around to see the perpetrator, a second security guard hiding behind a scuffed filing cabinet. He is so pleased with himself that he appears to stop breathing, at least until he inhales a massive gulp of oxygen to the accompaniment of a rasping grunt. We are seemingly the victims of a rather tasteless practical joke, whereby some poor old stiff has been dressed and propped up in a chair to act as the on duty guard. The execution of the prank has evidently exceeded all his expectations.
He finally recovers enough to say, ‘You soft gets!’ before mirth takes over and he is off again, laughing uncontrollably.
I sense an indignant upsurge within and hear myself playing the part of the stiff shirt. ‘Do you really think this is funny, dressing up some poor old sod who’s just passed away? What would his family think?’
‘They wouldn’t give a shit.’ The corpse has spoken.
I jump out of my skin shouting ‘fuck me’ amongst other expletives. The dead man is more alive than a pair of tramp’s underpants and is an accomplice to the joke with his fellow security guard. As the sorry scenario unfolds, I have to come to terms with the fact that I am the only one in the band who has reacted with any level of extremity to the practical jape. The two guards are tittering and wheezing, while Ged, Julian, and even Brian are smirking. I recover and have to see the funny side, though not before I pass my verdict.
‘You’re all a bunch of twats.’
There is more piss-taking as we head back to the van and wheel our new equipment to the room above the garage, the route via the chapel of repose having turned out to be a red herring. Unsurprisingly, there is no lift to the first floor, and we have to lug the kit up a stone staircase. A sign on the door at the top reads 'Office', and one push open from Ged's right foot reveals a large space, empty other than in one corner, where there is a solitary desk, chair, and two-drawer filing cabinet. Three adjacent panelled windows at the far end of the room give it a bright and cheery perspective, despite the drab flooring beneath our feet.
It takes us about twenty minutes to set everything up, Brian once again incapacitated because of his back problem. We are so ready when the time comes to start. We have been practising acoustically for a few days, so we really know the songs but are desperate to play with a bit of volume. Julian pulls out a file that contains the typewritten lyrics to all our songs. The track listing is:
‘All the Young Dudes’ - Mott the Hoople
‘No Matter What’ - Badfinger
‘Black Magic Woman’ - Fleetwood Mac
‘Revelation’ - Plain Truth
‘Venus’ - Shocking Blue
‘Smoking in the Boys Room’ - Brownsville Station
‘Brontosaurus’ - The Move
‘Across the Water’ - Plain Truth
‘All Right Now’ - Free
‘Whole Lotta Love’ - Led Zeppelin
‘Johnny B Goode’ - Chuck Berry
‘Chantilly Lace’ - Jerry Lee Lewis
‘Rock Around the Clock’ - Bill Haley & the Comets
Our songs are a mixed bag. In fact, our repertoire is such a broad church, I ponder whether I should mention my own song ‘Sofia’, but I lose faith at the last second. We start with ‘All the Young Dudes’, a song that Julian and I managed to convince the other lads to play, confident that it would go down a storm. We are lucky that Brian has such a good vocal range, because not many are able to hit the top A in the chorus. It sounds great. Despite the dubious quality of our equipment, the collective sound is a significant improvement on what has gone before. I suppose being closer as a foursome than a few months ago might be the reason. We have bonded over the course of our misadventures, and our sound is all the better for it. Certainly, for the first time since the ping-pong bat / yard brush / wooden rulers trio played nine months ago, this genuinely feels like a real group. We move on to play ‘No Matter What’, and there is no let up in the quality. By the time we are on our third of fourth number, we have an audience.
The delectable Amanda and the not so delectable Brenda make an appearance. My stomach churns on seeing the blind date I would rather forget, though she does look a lot better than she did at the 99 club. She is certainly slimmer. Both girls are dressed casually in jeans and tee shirts, greeting us enthusiastically, and we are pleased with their reaction at the end of each song, the sisters clapping and cheering excitedly. After 'Brontosaurus', Julian suggests a break, and Amanda takes us down a corridor. This leads to a canteen that houses a dozen or so square Formica tables, each surrounded by four metal tubular chairs with canvas seats and backs. On the wall to the left are two serving hatches and an adjacent door to the kitchen through which Brenda strides to make a brew. Despite her less than feminine body shape, I am reminded that her tits are like the Himalayas. Ged is a breast man and already in his element, joining her by the pots and pans to flirt in his own special way.
'Love your fucking bazookas Brenda.'
'Fuck off, you cheeky get.' Despite the admonishment, I can tell that Brenda is not displeased.
Julian and Amanda are next to one another, holding hands and exchanging the occasional peck on the lips. I can now see they are co-ordinated. Jules has been wearing a top emblazoned with the word 'His', while his girlfriend's reads 'Hers'. I am carrying out these observations at the same time as listening politely to Brian telling me about his mate Pothead who has had a series of letters read out on Granada TV by Bob Greaves, condemning the recreational use of marijuana. His pal had used the name Mr. H. Ash, aka ‘hash’. I have never seen Brian chuckle so much in the time I have known him. I am expecting a watery stain to appear near his crotch at any moment.
Brenda serves up the tea. ‘Here you are lads; get this down your gobs.’
She is such a delicate flower. Her voice is a lower pitch than normal for a girl, but it does sounds less like Lee Marvin today. I have been so lost in all the excitement of Plain Truth’s first amplified performance; it has only just occurred to me that I don't know why Brenda and Amanda are so familiar with the place. I ask them.
‘This is Daddy’s business,’ Amanda replies. ‘He runs a group of Funeral Homes, and this one is the original.’
I look through the canteen window and see a number of signs stating ‘Thurston’s Funeral Services’. We return to the practice room and rattle through the rest of our songs with ease. There are a few loose ends to correct, but overall, it is looking and sounding good. We know that we will continue to practice over the coming days and weeks to sharpen the act, but we all agree that the time has come to find a few gigs. We are soon packing up the gear, always the worst part of the rock and roller’s routine, and carrying it to the Bedford. We pass the area where the security guards played their practical joke earlier, and I see that the older of the two men is still at it, lying prone in his seat, but I am not going to fall for it a second time.
‘Sod off granddad! It wasn’t funny the first time.’
He ignores me. So I ignore him.
The girls join us on the journey home, Amanda sitting alongside Julian on the front seat with Brian driving, and me with Ged and Brenda in the rear. I am soon lamenting the suspension of the Caravanette, as I cling desperately to the edge of the upholstery in an attempt to avoid body contact with my fellow back seat passengers. Their fledgling relationship is gathering momentum, and they are soon French
kissing one another with the velocity of a food mixer on high speed, Ged simultaneously kneading Brenda’s tits as if baking the world’s largest loaf. Which fool said romance was dead?
9. Girls and Chocolate
It is the following Wednesday evening, and I am having a late night chat with Dad, my mum having just gone to bed after making a pot of tea and a few crisp sandwiches. The old man is not long back from his nightly visit to the Red Lion and is half-watching Wrestling from Pontefract Town Hall with Mick McManus and Big Daddy in the ring. There are cups of PG Tips sat on a kidney-shaped coffee table, a piece of furniture crafted by the old man from an old walnut headboard. Underneath the table, there is a homemade rug, pieced together from different carpet samples. Brown, sky blue, vivid purple, slate grey, cherry red and mustard vie for attention from staring eyes.
‘Your mother’s got a job,’ he says, his beery breath pronouncement a revelation.
In Pontefract, Big Daddy attempts a Boston Crab on Mick, and a granny with a hat and winter coat in the front row stands up to wave her umbrella at the giant wrestler.
‘Mum's got a job?’ I am surprised because she has not worked for over twenty years. 'Where at?'
‘Cadbury’s.’
‘Wow, mum working at a chocolate factory.’
‘The cake department, but they sell the chocolate in the staff shop.’
Mick has been on the verge of collapse but suddenly jumps up to take Big Daddy by surprise with a dropkick. The old woman punches the air with joy.
‘When does she start?’ I sip my tea and put the cracked china cup back on the coffee table. It slides down a couple of inches due to the gradient of the surface.
‘Next week, working afternoons.’ He picks something from his nose, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, and then flicks it across the room like a Subbuteo champion.
Mick goes for the kill with a Full Nelson. The referee counts to three and Kent Walton proclaims McManus the victor. Big Daddy is indignant with rage, and the woman in the front row is ready to take him on. Fortunately for the defeated wrestler, the ad-break intervenes.