A Name With No Band
Part 1: The Stick
There were no instruments, no songs, there was no band. Just a name. But that was enough. The calls came. Two. One from Germany and another from Japan. We want you on our label they said. We want to pay you to tour they said. We had nothing. Just a name. Two blokes down the pub. Rapscallions, tatterdemalion n'er-do-wells supping warm froth. What to do? Our killer hand was a total bluff.
The name. That name. A jest, a quip, a throw away line. In our stifled laughter we felt the medicine. An antedote to the weeping red-eye. Plagues of garage-bought chrysathemums rotting in the streets. These were the days of 'global hystericus'. Lumps in the throat. Quiet, buttoned-up desperation turned to self immolation.
The unaffected were tight lipped. Silent. Nodding in mock sympathy. Muttering asides to those quietly confirmed to be of likemind. You had to be careful. Grief cuts a path for rage. Tender, tear-soaked hearts can quickly turn.
A cow-eyed sacrifice. Slain and immortalised. Reel after reel, repeat, reel, repeat. Outpourings. Everywhere, every chanel, every page, outpourings. Sobbing throngs, wilted people. She lived on in the hearts of the public they said. Whoever the fuck the 'public' are?
Me and John weren't buying this shit.
Let me tell you about my accomplice. Imagine a tree made flesh. Not some sturdy oak in the forest. A scorched trunk with gnarled branches overhanging a wasteland, where kids escape adults, make dares, flash their bits, start fires. He wore only dark green (authentic East German army surplus). Lived on roll-ups and hot knives. Hanging from his head a large bag of wire-wool dreads. He was the crustiest fucker you've ever seen. A life-long tub thumper, pamphleteer, agitator, punk, raver, provocateur, political gadfly. An original.
If it was kicking off somewhere, John was there, armed with the small print and rules of engagement. Cast against a grim blue line of shiny buttons, badges and readied truncheons, he held sway, always guiding, directing, advising. He was a tricky, clever bastard.
His startling appearance, a hefty, resin-soaked sadhu in cold war combats (stinking of tobacco and subversion) caused nine out of 10 demographics to cross the street. Old ladies almost wet themselves with fear when he joined the queue in the post office. Yet his voice was perfectly toned to appease, to pacify, to pose questions of conscience, convey courtesy and consideration. Like being charmed by a king cobra, he'd transfix you then bite you on the arse. And get this, he was once duly elected to serve as an elected representative of a 'shire' county council.
The name. That name. It was John's joke. "I'm thinking of starting a band," he said, "I'm thinking of calling it The Dead Dianas."
"I like it," I said, "Alliteration!" We laughed and quickly sank our necks. Tender grieving hearts could be sitting closeby.
"You should book yourself a gig. Somewhere big." I said. "How about that place with the piles of rotting flowers outside?"
"Oh yeah!" said John, " A very fitting venue."
In that moment, the mischief in our eyes connected and the quantum foam crashed round the U-bend of space and time. We were flushed into an alternate reality.
Several minutes later. A telephone rings in the arts and events department of a northern English municipality.
"Hello," the voice is warm and quite charming. "I'd like to book the town hall for an event please."
"Yes of course, may I ask what kind of event?"
"Yes, a live music event featuring a new band."
"Oh, OK, yes, we've done plenty of live music but you do know we are only licenced till 11pm and everything has to be finished and locked up by midnight?"
"Yes, thats no problem."
"Our capacity is 650 and if you're expecting a big turn out I'd recommend you talk to our licencee, he can arrange refreshments. He does a good range of draught beers and wine, plastic glasses mind you."
"OK"
"Right then, I'll provisionally book you in now and it'll all be confirmed when we get your deposit."
"Excellent," says John.
At this point in my little tale, I must disclose an interest. In this chapter of my life I am a journalist, reporter, local news hound, trying desperately to balance the rigours of basic professionalism (ie. finding the office, writing more than a hundred words before lunch) whilst resting my head each night in the heady, herbal aroma of an overcrowded, grunge squat.
My deadline approaches and I need a story. Thanks to the lunchtime pint, some mischief and my crusty mate John, I now have a cracker.
Two hours later. In the corner of a windowless, open-plan office, where cheap carpet tiles have come unstuck and old newspapers are piled on the floor like a home for baby hedgehogs, a call is made. It goes something like this.
"Hello, can I speak to the arts and events officer please?"
"Speaking."
"Hi, I'm calling from the (insert name of provincial northern newspaper here). I'd like a comment from someone at the council regarding next weeks town hall gig by the ... Dead Dianas."
Silence. Then a sound, like false teeth hitting a filing cabinet.
"Err, we'll, I'll, get the, err, press office to call you." Slam. Ringtone.
I'm perusing my contacts book looking for a 'rent-a-gobshite' who'll take the bait, froth at the mouth, wail at the moon as I shorthand their outrage, when I get a call from that John character.
"They just got back to me," he says,"apparently there's some maintenance work happening to the function room next week and they are very sorry but there's no option but to cancel my booking."
We picture the mandarins with their hot flushes and palpitations, furrowed brows, hastily convened meetings, sweaty collars and calls to action.
It's all good. We've had some fun and I've got my story. I can feel the intro cursing (sic) through my jaded veins when the phone rings.
I recognise the voice. It's that bard of the bland, Peter, the pleasant council PR man, full of niceities and nebulous nothingness. He does what he's paid to do.
"Interests of the community ... blah, blah ... public safety ... blah blah ... she was the people's princess ... blah blah."
The clock's ticking. Thanks for that Peter.
Now, dear reader, comes my motive for this scribbled tale, the metaphor I hope will lodge deep into your frontal cortex to hijack your amygdala's default media setting.
Are you ready? Imagine a dog, its chest cavity heaving as it coughs up and spews out the contents of its stomach onto the floor. Now imagine that same dog licking its lips, sticking a shiny, wet nose into the partially digested detritus, then devouring it.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is a perfect working metaphor for the modern media. A dog eating its own vomit. That's all you need to know. Daytime TV. Dog eats own vomit. Broadsheet opinion piece. Dog eats own vomit. Primetime news. Dog carefully chooses what to eat before nauseous expulsion then eats own vomit. Don't believe me? Too cynical? Let the story continue.
So I'm working on the front page. Words are like chucks of meat thrown into a sausage machine. Outrage. Fear. Punks. Shock. Outcry. The dog is salivating, getting ready to puke. And there she is, dominating the entire page. The goddess, our princess, peering up at the masthead with those long-lashed eyes.
HEADLINE: SICK PUNK GIG AXED
Four words, four syllables. Genius sir, well done!
The editor likes my exclusive, his whiskers are tingling, but he's also twitchy (and unaware of my subterfuge). I stand back to look at the front page, like it's a fucking work of art. Royalty. Punk. It's like something from 77. Never Mind the Bollards.
Down the pub, a well earned drink, smug for sure, knowing we'll hit the streets in the morning. The competition are in. Drinking fellows and fierce rivals.
"What you running with?"
"Wait and see mate, its a classic."
Then out of the quantum foam a phone call. I can see myself now, spitting the head back onto the lager.
"You fucking what? You're joking right? What a bunch of fucking (insert your synonym for cowards here)."
Spiked. My story. Disappeared into an untitled folder on some shitty Dell PC. The corporate profit drones protecting our dear advertisers.
My competition sensed blood. I gulped back the beer. From celebration to commiseration in two swigs.
"You might as well have it lads," I say, outling the details of the story. They get jittery. They know its good puke. They line up my drinks for the night in gratitude.
"Yeah, yeah, I've got the band's contact number, its here somewhere, bassist, called John."
In trap three of a gentleman's rest room, a hushed voice relays a plan.
"Expect a phone call. Lay it on thick. By the way, you play bass."
Part 2: Carrots
Fucking unbelieveable. Our rivals, the much more conservative-minded competition, ran with the story, my story. Front page, on the news stands, in all its glory. Bass player John quoted at length.
"Our drummer came up with the name months ago," said punk bassist, John Uhu. "He must be psychic."
And now, right here, is where we enter bongo dog land. The next day John's phone is white hot. The eye of Sauron is upon him and the orc hounds have been released. As well as the usual "fascist scum" (John's words not mine) he is interviewed by a music magazine from Germany. He won't admit to it but I think he likes being in a band.
Then it happens. What so many teens and twenty somethings dream of as they riff furiously in the privacy of their bedrooms. A call from a record company. An offer, a tour.
Am I making this up? Well, let's add a little perspective. It's a punk label, we're not talking big bucks, but they're offering to pay for the Dead Dianas to play gigs in Hamburg and Berlin. Sniff that up muso's - can you feel your heart racing?
Call two. From Tokyo. An American exec, serious interest, come out and play. We'll cover costs, if popular, press some records. Send us a demo. Up for it? We're fucking cock-a-hoop mate!
The name. That name. That's all it took. Doors opened. Deals dangled like carrots. But our hand was a bluff. What to do?
Me and my tree mate made flesh, John, the crustiest fucker you've ever met, reconvene at the pub. We share an hallucination, in Tokyo, amps still buzzing, we are the Dead Dianas, thank you and goodnight, drowning in a sea of smudged, kohl-rimmed eyes, ultra-red lipstick and ripped fishnets.
I can play, I can play! A minor to C - there is a house in - now D - New Orleans, it's called the - heavy strum on the fat E - rising sun. It's no good. No amount of distortion will save us.
Fuck'em anyway, why do they want us there? They just want the name, that name, the controversy, the publicity, they are dogs too, feasting on the vomit.
OK, we know our killer hand is a bluff but circumstance has forced us to play it.
My self-made exclusive, spiked then sold for a couple of pints, was still fresh on the streets. I had a deadline. I needed another story.
And here we were back in the pub, two beer-mat ninjas, infamous punk band, The Dead Dianas. I put on my campaigning journalist hat, affect an incredulous tone.
"Mr Crusty Fucker, would you like to explain how and why you pulled this hoax band stunt?"
My erudite companion's eyes light up like a jackpot slot machine. He stands and delivers.
"Sickening media hypocrisy ... blah blah ... faux outrage ... blah blah ... profiting from public grief ... blah blah ... you make the rest up .... blah blah ... I'm going for a piss ... blah blah."
My editor likes it. The moral high ground. The trusty sword of truth. Righteousness.
"It'll make all the other papers look like right ... (insert Anglo-Saxon vernacular for female genitalia here)."
The printing presses roll and it hits the streets.
HEADLINE: PUNK HOAX EXPOSES MEDIA HYPOCRISY
Impact font, an insert of our rival's fake story and a very small picture of John (don't want to scare the old folk). He likes it. It's one in the eye for 'the man,' the lachrymose lynch mob, the publicity whores, the easily offended and opportunely outraged. A wet sponge thrown at this sick, sorry carnival surrounding a woman's untimely death.
And there dear reader, like ouroboros, my story comes full circle to eat its own head. A name with no band, a cunning stunt, a short ride on the big karmic dipper and for me, still partially hallucinating in Japan, a trip to the music shop to buy a book - Russ Shipton's Guitar for Beginners.
A minor - and its been the ruin of many a poor boy - back to E major - And God, I know, I'm one.
Part 1: The Stick
There were no instruments, no songs, there was no band. Just a name. But that was enough. The calls came. Two. One from Germany and another from Japan. We want you on our label they said. We want to pay you to tour they said. We had nothing. Just a name. Two blokes down the pub. Rapscallions, tatterdemalion n'er-do-wells supping warm froth. What to do? Our killer hand was a total bluff.
The name. That name. A jest, a quip, a throw away line. In our stifled laughter we felt the medicine. An antedote to the weeping red-eye. Plagues of garage-bought chrysathemums rotting in the streets. These were the days of 'global hystericus'. Lumps in the throat. Quiet, buttoned-up desperation turned to self immolation.
The unaffected were tight lipped. Silent. Nodding in mock sympathy. Muttering asides to those quietly confirmed to be of likemind. You had to be careful. Grief cuts a path for rage. Tender, tear-soaked hearts can quickly turn.
A cow-eyed sacrifice. Slain and immortalised. Reel after reel, repeat, reel, repeat. Outpourings. Everywhere, every chanel, every page, outpourings. Sobbing throngs, wilted people. She lived on in the hearts of the public they said. Whoever the fuck the 'public' are?
Me and John weren't buying this shit.
Let me tell you about my accomplice. Imagine a tree made flesh. Not some sturdy oak in the forest. A scorched trunk with gnarled branches overhanging a wasteland, where kids escape adults, make dares, flash their bits, start fires. He wore only dark green (authentic East German army surplus). Lived on roll-ups and hot knives. Hanging from his head a large bag of wire-wool dreads. He was the crustiest fucker you've ever seen. A life-long tub thumper, pamphleteer, agitator, punk, raver, provocateur, political gadfly. An original.
If it was kicking off somewhere, John was there, armed with the small print and rules of engagement. Cast against a grim blue line of shiny buttons, badges and readied truncheons, he held sway, always guiding, directing, advising. He was a tricky, clever bastard.
His startling appearance, a hefty, resin-soaked sadhu in cold war combats (stinking of tobacco and subversion) caused nine out of 10 demographics to cross the street. Old ladies almost wet themselves with fear when he joined the queue in the post office. Yet his voice was perfectly toned to appease, to pacify, to pose questions of conscience, convey courtesy and consideration. Like being charmed by a king cobra, he'd transfix you then bite you on the arse. And get this, he was once duly elected to serve as an elected representative of a 'shire' county council.
The name. That name. It was John's joke. "I'm thinking of starting a band," he said, "I'm thinking of calling it The Dead Dianas."
"I like it," I said, "Alliteration!" We laughed and quickly sank our necks. Tender grieving hearts could be sitting closeby.
"You should book yourself a gig. Somewhere big." I said. "How about that place with the piles of rotting flowers outside?"
"Oh yeah!" said John, " A very fitting venue."
In that moment, the mischief in our eyes connected and the quantum foam crashed round the U-bend of space and time. We were flushed into an alternate reality.
Several minutes later. A telephone rings in the arts and events department of a northern English municipality.
"Hello," the voice is warm and quite charming. "I'd like to book the town hall for an event please."
"Yes of course, may I ask what kind of event?"
"Yes, a live music event featuring a new band."
"Oh, OK, yes, we've done plenty of live music but you do know we are only licenced till 11pm and everything has to be finished and locked up by midnight?"
"Yes, thats no problem."
"Our capacity is 650 and if you're expecting a big turn out I'd recommend you talk to our licencee, he can arrange refreshments. He does a good range of draught beers and wine, plastic glasses mind you."
"OK"
"Right then, I'll provisionally book you in now and it'll all be confirmed when we get your deposit."
"Excellent," says John.
At this point in my little tale, I must disclose an interest. In this chapter of my life I am a journalist, reporter, local news hound, trying desperately to balance the rigours of basic professionalism (ie. finding the office, writing more than a hundred words before lunch) whilst resting my head each night in the heady, herbal aroma of an overcrowded, grunge squat.
My deadline approaches and I need a story. Thanks to the lunchtime pint, some mischief and my crusty mate John, I now have a cracker.
Two hours later. In the corner of a windowless, open-plan office, where cheap carpet tiles have come unstuck and old newspapers are piled on the floor like a home for baby hedgehogs, a call is made. It goes something like this.
"Hello, can I speak to the arts and events officer please?"
"Speaking."
"Hi, I'm calling from the (insert name of provincial northern newspaper here). I'd like a comment from someone at the council regarding next weeks town hall gig by the ... Dead Dianas."
Silence. Then a sound, like false teeth hitting a filing cabinet.
"Err, we'll, I'll, get the, err, press office to call you." Slam. Ringtone.
I'm perusing my contacts book looking for a 'rent-a-gobshite' who'll take the bait, froth at the mouth, wail at the moon as I shorthand their outrage, when I get a call from that John character.
"They just got back to me," he says,"apparently there's some maintenance work happening to the function room next week and they are very sorry but there's no option but to cancel my booking."
We picture the mandarins with their hot flushes and palpitations, furrowed brows, hastily convened meetings, sweaty collars and calls to action.
It's all good. We've had some fun and I've got my story. I can feel the intro cursing (sic) through my jaded veins when the phone rings.
I recognise the voice. It's that bard of the bland, Peter, the pleasant council PR man, full of niceities and nebulous nothingness. He does what he's paid to do.
"Interests of the community ... blah, blah ... public safety ... blah blah ... she was the people's princess ... blah blah."
The clock's ticking. Thanks for that Peter.
Now, dear reader, comes my motive for this scribbled tale, the metaphor I hope will lodge deep into your frontal cortex to hijack your amygdala's default media setting.
Are you ready? Imagine a dog, its chest cavity heaving as it coughs up and spews out the contents of its stomach onto the floor. Now imagine that same dog licking its lips, sticking a shiny, wet nose into the partially digested detritus, then devouring it.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is a perfect working metaphor for the modern media. A dog eating its own vomit. That's all you need to know. Daytime TV. Dog eats own vomit. Broadsheet opinion piece. Dog eats own vomit. Primetime news. Dog carefully chooses what to eat before nauseous expulsion then eats own vomit. Don't believe me? Too cynical? Let the story continue.
So I'm working on the front page. Words are like chucks of meat thrown into a sausage machine. Outrage. Fear. Punks. Shock. Outcry. The dog is salivating, getting ready to puke. And there she is, dominating the entire page. The goddess, our princess, peering up at the masthead with those long-lashed eyes.
HEADLINE: SICK PUNK GIG AXED
Four words, four syllables. Genius sir, well done!
The editor likes my exclusive, his whiskers are tingling, but he's also twitchy (and unaware of my subterfuge). I stand back to look at the front page, like it's a fucking work of art. Royalty. Punk. It's like something from 77. Never Mind the Bollards.
Down the pub, a well earned drink, smug for sure, knowing we'll hit the streets in the morning. The competition are in. Drinking fellows and fierce rivals.
"What you running with?"
"Wait and see mate, its a classic."
Then out of the quantum foam a phone call. I can see myself now, spitting the head back onto the lager.
"You fucking what? You're joking right? What a bunch of fucking (insert your synonym for cowards here)."
Spiked. My story. Disappeared into an untitled folder on some shitty Dell PC. The corporate profit drones protecting our dear advertisers.
My competition sensed blood. I gulped back the beer. From celebration to commiseration in two swigs.
"You might as well have it lads," I say, outling the details of the story. They get jittery. They know its good puke. They line up my drinks for the night in gratitude.
"Yeah, yeah, I've got the band's contact number, its here somewhere, bassist, called John."
In trap three of a gentleman's rest room, a hushed voice relays a plan.
"Expect a phone call. Lay it on thick. By the way, you play bass."
Part 2: Carrots
Fucking unbelieveable. Our rivals, the much more conservative-minded competition, ran with the story, my story. Front page, on the news stands, in all its glory. Bass player John quoted at length.
"Our drummer came up with the name months ago," said punk bassist, John Uhu. "He must be psychic."
And now, right here, is where we enter bongo dog land. The next day John's phone is white hot. The eye of Sauron is upon him and the orc hounds have been released. As well as the usual "fascist scum" (John's words not mine) he is interviewed by a music magazine from Germany. He won't admit to it but I think he likes being in a band.
Then it happens. What so many teens and twenty somethings dream of as they riff furiously in the privacy of their bedrooms. A call from a record company. An offer, a tour.
Am I making this up? Well, let's add a little perspective. It's a punk label, we're not talking big bucks, but they're offering to pay for the Dead Dianas to play gigs in Hamburg and Berlin. Sniff that up muso's - can you feel your heart racing?
Call two. From Tokyo. An American exec, serious interest, come out and play. We'll cover costs, if popular, press some records. Send us a demo. Up for it? We're fucking cock-a-hoop mate!
The name. That name. That's all it took. Doors opened. Deals dangled like carrots. But our hand was a bluff. What to do?
Me and my tree mate made flesh, John, the crustiest fucker you've ever met, reconvene at the pub. We share an hallucination, in Tokyo, amps still buzzing, we are the Dead Dianas, thank you and goodnight, drowning in a sea of smudged, kohl-rimmed eyes, ultra-red lipstick and ripped fishnets.
I can play, I can play! A minor to C - there is a house in - now D - New Orleans, it's called the - heavy strum on the fat E - rising sun. It's no good. No amount of distortion will save us.
Fuck'em anyway, why do they want us there? They just want the name, that name, the controversy, the publicity, they are dogs too, feasting on the vomit.
OK, we know our killer hand is a bluff but circumstance has forced us to play it.
My self-made exclusive, spiked then sold for a couple of pints, was still fresh on the streets. I had a deadline. I needed another story.
And here we were back in the pub, two beer-mat ninjas, infamous punk band, The Dead Dianas. I put on my campaigning journalist hat, affect an incredulous tone.
"Mr Crusty Fucker, would you like to explain how and why you pulled this hoax band stunt?"
My erudite companion's eyes light up like a jackpot slot machine. He stands and delivers.
"Sickening media hypocrisy ... blah blah ... faux outrage ... blah blah ... profiting from public grief ... blah blah ... you make the rest up .... blah blah ... I'm going for a piss ... blah blah."
My editor likes it. The moral high ground. The trusty sword of truth. Righteousness.
"It'll make all the other papers look like right ... (insert Anglo-Saxon vernacular for female genitalia here)."
The printing presses roll and it hits the streets.
HEADLINE: PUNK HOAX EXPOSES MEDIA HYPOCRISY
Impact font, an insert of our rival's fake story and a very small picture of John (don't want to scare the old folk). He likes it. It's one in the eye for 'the man,' the lachrymose lynch mob, the publicity whores, the easily offended and opportunely outraged. A wet sponge thrown at this sick, sorry carnival surrounding a woman's untimely death.
And there dear reader, like ouroboros, my story comes full circle to eat its own head. A name with no band, a cunning stunt, a short ride on the big karmic dipper and for me, still partially hallucinating in Japan, a trip to the music shop to buy a book - Russ Shipton's Guitar for Beginners.
A minor - and its been the ruin of many a poor boy - back to E major - And God, I know, I'm one.