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The year: 2002. The day: now forgotten.
In the quaint, suburban setting of Goring-On-Thames, one of the heroes of this tale, Tom- affectionately referred to as "The Friar" due to his job as a chef and underground gangsta- receives a very unexpected e-mail. Who from? You ask. Why? You yearn to know. Does this have any relevance? You question. Yes you fuck! It was from a local promoter, Mr. Skate Punk- a magical man. The e-mail was offering Tom’s band The Suck Ups a gig at The Roebuck in two months, one problem… unbeknownst to Mr Skate Punk (Adam) The Suck Ups legacy had reached a dramatic anticlimax only a few months earlier, when the band decided the riot was over, the drug consumption tiring and the music contrived, poor and predictable. The proposed date was December 7th. The proposed bands: Kenisia and Joski, two bands he respected thoroughly… Tom foolishly agreed to play. What was he to do now? Tom decided to sort it out using the only method he knew. He put on his 1950’s flat hat and proceeded to walk around the village with an over-sized magnifying glass. He woke up a month later…BOLLOCKS. With only one month remaining until Tom’s day of judgement he strew his trusted garments on the wet grass, shaved using a fern tree and some toothpaste and walked, still in cahoots.
A drummer? a bassist? a guitarist? A spliff! He rolled the joint, and phoned a friend to smoke the intoxicant with. This friend was a tall, dark haired, mysterious character. His name, John Cooper. Something signalled in Tom’s stoned mind but what? Food? No, not yet. Sleep? Not at all…Oh yeah! He needed a quality band for a gig in a month. John "The Dragon Slayer" had been playing guitar since Tom had known him…since birth. Surely, he could play. This assumption was not wrong. In fact he played like shit off a fucking shovel. fucking hell! He had more funk than a kangaroo crossed with Dave Mirello with a marrow up his arse. John also had dread locks…he had to be in this project. After a few more instalments of Amsterdami courage Tom, anxious about John’s impeded response timidly posed the question.
"Would you like some of this?" John took the burning cone, he was shortly enlisted into the band, well one-man-band. After a couple more zuts conversation slowed…the always uninteresting conversation of bass players unfolded. Tom did not socialise with those types (if you don’t kow what I mean, read some musician jokes) it was up to John…great. But wait… "I know this geezer…" John says with controlled admiration, Tom smiles intently " His name’s Simon… Simon… Simon Lovecock."
"What? LOVE COCK??"
"yeh, Simon Lovecock." John unleashes a grins…Tom grins in a self-satisfied retort…both laugh uncontrollably, that was enough. Before Tom could say "Pauline Quirk was born with her vital organs attached to her stomach" John had picked up his phone and "this geezer" Lovecock was on the other line. Simon agreed to the proposition of playing bass for a "crazy" band without hesitation.
Three Saturdays until the gig, the three relentless rogue warriors proceeded to book a practise in Impact Studios, Cemetery Junction. The air was thick with funny smelling smoke and the feelin’ was right. The deity’s were surely smiling down on these boys… tramps said hello…people in cars hurled abuse and muggers got friendly, too friendly by half. Oh yes… surely these boys were destined for greatness. They no longer had money or credit cards, but they did have their instruments. The three-piece jammed out some jazz/metal avidly for 40 minutes before a bloke with big holes in his ears and both nipples emblazon by flamboyant rings walked in, coughed and sat on the drum stall. The short, introvert began to play along to the complicated structure of the designated jam. Simon turned and faced the guitarists with confusion plastered on his ugly, bass playing face. Of course, he did not disapprove…not by a long shot. Tom winked knowledgeably and they all continued jammin’ frantically, unfazed. The Drummer was Craig- a real fuckin’ pro. Sick of "drumming collectives", playing mediocre shit for concerts and being dictated by a bloke that talents are limited to shaking his enormous stomach at parties, Craig wanted more. More feel, more funk, more alcohol… the musicians played for a solid week without slowing the pace... they had begun to realise each others styles and tendancies. Pretty soon… they were able to read each other’s innermost fears, anxieties, histories, and futures simply by jamming the Hungarian Scale, and ritually consolidating in endless Dorian/Lochrian binges. "The Band" as the members referred to their collective as had gained a beautiful elegance and real meaning, or I was just too stoned.
Meanwhile…Tom and Craig had decided to stop smoking weed. Intoxicant free "this band" now called "The Suck Ups" continued practising and eventually managed to write some songs less than two hours in length… it was suddenly the day of the gig. It then occurred to them… "We don’t have any songs" They sang in Bill & Ted-esque synchronisation … "Oh, bollocks!" The Suck Ups boys, disheartened but not destroyed took a walk with destiny. The dream was over. The conjoined membrane, the invisible bond had been loosened. All hope was dieing. Or was it? it then struck John. For the first time, his lips moved. He spoke… "You fuckin’ idiot!!!" He slapped Tom viscously, John’s angry eyes piercing his tender flesh "What the fuck have we been doing for the past three weeks!!!" Simon raised his arm, timidly. John looked surprised, and exasperated by this lack of respect… "Yes…"
"Smoking weed?" John looked upon "the dissentriss" with spiteful provenance "sir…" mumbled Simon. He bowed his head, shamed. "NO!!" John snapped, "jammin’, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do tonight." Yes! Yes! Yes! It made perfect sense, everyone agreed hastily.
After some last minute changes (ha), the four brave warriors ascended to the stage. Problems with the microphone suspended their inception, for one worrying moment failure seemed inevitable. The sound-guy gave a halfhearted "thumbs-up" from behind the desk. Nostalgia had stolen their anxiety and cheap booze had stolen their orientation…they were ready! Craig began thumping his kit confidently and the rest is history… the nipples came out, and four glowing stars were born.
"Well done mate.." Simon’s testing words came "but ah, my name isn’t Simon Lovecock, it’s Sam, Sam Lewis-Wall". Tom, dizzy and eager, replied after hesitation:
"Yeah, well played. That was awesome." Craig took Sam by the shoulder and the band left the stage, content if not slightly disillusioned.
Now, time to continue what they had discontinued thirty minutes earlier. Using the bands "travel" money Craig and Tom made their way to the bar, weaving in and out of the maze of confused façades. I can only guess what they were thinking. It is possible that they were asking their sub-conscience "what is the meaning of life? Why was I put on this world?" or more likely, "Were those two giggling, drunken fools just on stage?" or increasingly likely "TWATS!" They reached the bar after craftily avoiding many raised fists and other precisely positioned obstacles. Craig looked at Tom "It’s time to celebrate"… fuckwit. They ordered twenty, one pound drinks and told John and Sam to make their way to the bar. "Chug! Chug! Chug!" went the Suck Ups anthem for an indulgent five minutes, but alas… no beer and no money.
The night ended with praise, love and puking for most and then we got some horn players yada, yada, yada…
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