

Svengali

Part 1

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Junior

By

Kevin Donoghue

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Dedicated to

Tony Kostrzewa

1949 - 2008

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A hilarious jaunt through the independent music industry, that sweeps a wannabe rock star, from one all time low to yet another, with the occasional high thrown in to maintain his enthusiasm.

The laughing gods of rock are slumming it with Bacchus, as the 'New Wave' music scene explodes across England's dirty northern towns and Thatcher's 'Lost Generation' clutch at the desperate straws of hope.

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Table of Content

Dedication

Description

Prologue

Chapter 1 The Wake Up Call

Chapter 2 The Red Rhino Record Shop

Chapter 3 Junior

Chapter 4 The Radio Interview

Chapter 5 Where the Fuck is Reykjavik?

Chapter 6 Big In Iceland

Chapter 7 The early Morning Rain

Chapter 8 The Telephone is Ringing

Chapter 9 It's Only Rock 'n' Roll

Chapter 10 Milo

Chapter 11 No Rehearsal

Chapter 12 The Great North Road

Chapter 13 The Road to Newark

Chapter 14 Great Balls of Fire

Chapter 15 Goodness Gracious

Chapter 16 Auld Lang Sine

Chapter 17 Play Delilah

Chapter 18 Rock in Reykjavik

Chapter 19 The Legend of Radio One

Chapter 20 Hanging on the Telephone

Chapter 21 Strike While the Iron is Hot

Chapter 22 Hey, Mr. Bank Manager

Chapter 23 Making The Album

Chapter 24 Searching for an Orchestration

Chapter 25 Laurel

Chapter 26 On the Road Again

Chapter 27  Have You Found It Yet

Chapter 28 Vinyl Records

Epilogue

Disclaimer

The Song Title Game

Author Biography

More books by the Author

Publishing Credits

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The Prologue

"Look mate, it's nothing personal but we have to do what's best for the band."

'Nothing personal! It's my whole life you selfish bastards.'

Without saying anything, Dev slammed down the phone and sulked. He felt heartbroken. It's true that no one likes to be sacked but when you are involved with a band, it is so intimate; it becomes your whole life. It's more personal, like a good marriage that is followed by the inevitable bad divorce.

But that was yesterday...

The battered mattress was laid on the floor of the grubby one room studio apartment, surrounded by boxes of Bone Juice's debut seven inch single; Junior.

Dev lay on the mattress, his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, like a common snail sticks to a garden wall and the phone had just rung for the first time in three months.

'Where the fuck is Reykjavik?' He asked himself, as he glanced around the clothes strewn room, and grabbing the ring-pull on the last tin, he tugged and heard the familiar spluttering sound.

"Yer." He smiled, and took a long, deep swig.

It was May 1980.

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1

The Wake Up Call

It was one of those really deep sleeps. The type were you're so totally immersed in sleep, that nothing else in the whole world seems to matter, and as he slumbered, Dev was experiencing the most lucid of dreams.

It was a strange dream in truth, and he crept through it, seeking a light, that vanished and then re-appeared, rhythmically, like that of a storm battered lighthouse, at the very edge of the worldes.

In the dream, he felt like he was looking through another man's eyes, watching as it were, a man who was struggling to find his way amongst the fog strewn streets of a dirty northern town, a real pea-souper of a fog, the type of fog, in which the end of your hand disappears into the grey veil, in front your very eyes, and every sound, seems strangely muffled but thrillingly loud and exaggerated at the same time.

And then all of a sudden the ray of light fell more closely by him, and Dev turn all of his senses in its direction.

'Yes there... there, there it was.' He shouted... silently to his dream laden self, as the fog swirled yet again.

And then it was gone...

And a bell slowly began to toil in the fog-strewn morning. Seeping, like treacle black coffee, through the filter of his consciousness.

It tolled, and it clanged, as it rang, again and again, increasing in volume until it became deafening.

And without even opening an eye, he slipped his pale hand out, from under the warm duvet and into the cold light of the dull morning, and reached across the worldes, searching for its origin.

And as consciousness flooded back into his mind, Dev grasped at the dream, as it receded within seconds, like the point of light on an old TV set, and he felt the truth, the knowledge of what had gone before, and that which was yet to come, and suddenly he felt the worldes judder, as they spun around, like the cogs of a giant wheel in a clockwork mechanism, and instinctively he knew;

It was going to be an 'Urgh' day.

'Urgh.' He said to himself, since no one else was there.

His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, like a common snail sticks to a garden wall. Unmoving, unyielding, and with a strength that he had not known it could possess.

Blinking, once, twice, he tried to set it free, slowly, delicately, tracing the outline of his mouth, like a frog, desperately seeking moisture.

He could hear the bells as they rang again, they seemed louder this time, as if someone had decided to pump up the volume, which of course they could have done, and the instrument itself was apparently becoming impatient.

Through sheer will power he forced a hand to move and he grabbed at the telephone blindly, his fingers stabbing in an arc and upon securing the handset, he hesitated for a moment, and considered what to say before he carefully answered.

"There's a taste in my mouth. And it's no taste at all."

"Erm... I know... Just how you feel... So well, so very, very, well, my dear, dear chap." Said the voice at the other end of the line.

It was a soft voice, with a slight hesitation to it, if you know what I mean. As if the person to whom it belonged, really considered what he said, before he said it.

Subconsciously Dev realised that he had notice this fact, and he was fully aware that it was a skill that he did not possess.

No indeed, he was aware that he was often unable to control his verbal out bursts, some how he always seemed to blurt out whatever it was that he was thinking at that very moment. He really couldn't seem to help himself at all. It was a problem he would have to work on, he decided...

"Could that be Native Records?" continued the hesitant voice.

"I'm trying to find someone from Native Records, or from the band... Bone Juice."

"Er... Can you help me please?"

Gradually Dev's attention returned to the voice that was seeping out of the handset.

"Yer." He answered huffily, as if his voice was still stuck deep within his chest, and he paused, whilst he struggled to get an arm under himself and raise his milk white body on to its side.

"Just a minute." Replied Dev as he dropped the phone on to the crumpled duvet, and manfully pulled his knees up to his chest.

And for the first time that morning he sat up and opened his eyes fully.

One quick look around the apartment showed him that it was one of the God's better days.

The late morning sunlight was streaming through the dirt stained window of the ground floor apartment and as it did, it cast a weak sheen upon the world, like pale yellow paint, on a very bad watercolour. It was a luster that spread from the curtainless window, to the shabby wardrobe, which was the room's only piece of intact furniture.

He grabbed a handful of the thick thatch of dark brown hair a top his head and scratched vigorously, and then roughly coughed up a bit of phlegm, whilst looking around the room, and suddenly he felt hope, spring eternal, as his eyes alighted upon the tin.

Taking a quick swig from the nearly empty tin of Red Stripe, which held the place of honour, amongst last night castoffs; the bracelets, bangles, necklaces and rings, which were clustered together on the floor next to the mattress.

Then, feeling as if his eyes had suddenly become unglued, set free from the mire that formed such a deep puddle at the back of his head, he manfully grasped at the phone again and bravely said.

"Yer. This is Dev, how can I help you?"

The soft voice seemed surprised to find him still alive.

"Oh... Hi." It hesitated,

"I'm Tony... Tony K, from Red Rhino Records... in York." It paused as if not sure how to continue for a moment.

"We have had a lot of the shops asking for your single... Junior." It queried, seeking some form of affirmation.

"Adrian, from Hillsborough Records in Sheffield, told me how to get hold of you. Have you got any of the singles there?"

"Yer. Loads. There in boxes, holding the table up at the minute."

Dev coughed again, and finished the Red Stripe with a grateful gulp, as he felt the life slowly seeping back into his fog-laden brain.

The table in question is a rickety low lounge table with three legs and a draw. Several boxes of the seven-inch single held up the corner with the missing leg in question.

"Great."

"Who is handling the distribution for you?"

"Distribution?" Dev inquired,

"Well... no one really. We haven't got any distribution. Were doing it all ourselves. Like the punks... yer know?"

"I gave some to Rough Trade in London, and to Jungle, on sale or return, and all of the shops in Sheffield have got copies... but that's it really."

"Great. OK. We distribute punk and indie records all over the world. We sell to Rough Trade and to Jungle, as well as to about six thousand other shops, if you include WH Smith, HMV, Boots and Our Price."

"Would you like us to help you, 'cos we really would like to be involved."

"Can I get some of the singles from you?" The soft voice continued rapidly.

"Yer. I suppose."

"You're in Sheffield aren't you?"

"Could you get to York?"

"Yer. I suppose. I can always get a train or a bus maybe." Answered Dev.

"If I pay your train fare, could you come through today with some?"

"Yer. Well... it depends. Just a minute mate."

Placing the handset down gently and rising carefully, Dev walked the short distance across the room and opened its only door.

Now, the room in question is on the ground floor, at the front of a large Victorian house, which has been converted into single unit flats by the landlord, a Scottish guitarist called Robbie, who had relocated to Sheffield in order to play the Working Men's Club circuit, and had invested his earnings wisely. Some say he arrived for a gig one night, and that he never returned to his native lands, having instantly fallen in love with a local girl.

You should also note that when these apartments are described as flats, that a certain amount of lyrical freedom is being used, in short people exaggerate, they are in all reality, bedsitting rooms.

Dev's apartment is a small single room with a partitioned cubbyhole that has a dirty grease stained curtain, behind which is contained a sink and a twin ring cooker with a broken grill, and upstairs there is a shared toilet and bathroom.

There are three other flats in the building, one more on the ground floor, which is a two-roomed affair, and has a door that leads into the backyard. The middle floor flat has a room with off of which is a separate kitchen, and a bedroom, and lastly, is the small attic room, similar to Dev's but located, as you would guess, at the top of the house.

Each day the post drops through the front door of the building and on to the cracked mosaic tiles of the hallway, where it arranges itself, along with the free papers, the takeaway menus, various leaflets and a substantial amount of dust and decaying leaves, in a small pile at the foot of the staircase, just behind Jimmy's bicycle wheel.

Jimmy is the skinhead who lives in the top attic flat by the way.

Dev paused at the door to look up the stairs and down along the hallway, checking if there was anyone around and once satisfied that the way was clear, he walked swiftly to the door, to search through the morning's arrivals.

Amongst the leaflets, free papers and mail that belonged to unknown previous tenants, hopefully would be the one he was looking for, it should be in a plain brown envelope.

Yes, and there it was, the weekly addition to the Devereux coffers. A Giro cheque, the Queen's shilling, his Job Seekers Allowance.

Opening it eagerly he walked back towards his room.

"Nice bum Dev!" Said Sam, the beautiful blonde who refused to sleep with him, as she proceeded down the stairs. Sam lives in the middle flat, and works in the local council offices.

"Yer? Erm... thanks." He said smiling at her.

Well, what else can you say, when your neighbour catches you naked and unshaven at half past twelve, post meridian, in the communal hallway?

"Why aren't you at work?" He asked her.

"I've been to the dentist, and thought I'd twag the rest of the day,"

"You got the rent?"

"Nar. Just me dole."

"Tell Robbie, I'll have it by the weekend, if you see him."

"I'm off to York."

Returning to the flat, he stretched for a moment before dropping to the mattress again and picking up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello!" He repeated.

"Oh hi..." Said the hesitant voice,

"I thought you had disappeared."

"Nar, I had to see if me giro had come."

"Yer. It has, I can get the train to York now. You said you'd pay, right?"

"Yes, and I will pay you cash for the singles too."

"Groovy, how many do you want?"

"Well, how many can you carry?"

"Dunno... there in boxes of twenty five."

"Bring five hundred if you can." Said Tony.

"Five hundred? Don't think we have got that many left."

"Well, bring as many as you can spare, we'll take them all and I will pay you cash," continued Tony,

"Here is the address. The shop is on Gillygate. It's not far from the station but if you ring me later, and tell me which train you are on, I will meet you there."

"Yer, alright. See ya in a bit... Groovie."

✪

2

The Red Rhino Record Shop

The train pulled into York station and Dev stood up slowly. He was starting to feel a bit better as the day had worn on and his hangover had worn off.

The morning had turned into a pleasant spring afternoon and he had been to the Post Office, where he had cashed his giro cheque, the Queens shilling, and was now the best of all things;

A state employed musician, with a bag full of his own singles. And he knew that he was looking the business, after all he was dressed in his Doc Martins, faded Levis, with his favourite Devo T-shirt and his black leather jacket.

And here he was, heading off to meet the first real music businessperson that he had ever had a conversation with, and he couldn't help but wonder about Tony and what he would be like.

All the stereotypes, of all the music industry and record executives that he had ever seen, in the cinema or on the television, started to flick through his mind and it didn't seem to take long.

Not that Dev has a small, dull or insubstantial mind in any way but because there only ever seemed to be the one, stereotype that is, not mind.

All the music business executives that Dev had ever seen, on the screen of the movies or on the television were the same. They were fat, inevitably bald and they all had huge cigars permanently jammed into the corner of their mouths.

'Well, that should be easy enough to spot on the platform of York station.' He thought.

'I mean, how many fat, bald blokes, with cigars jammed into the corner of their mouths could there be on one platform?'

As he descended to the platform, with the biggest bag Sam had been able to lend him slung across his shoulder and another, this one his own, in his hand, he was taken aback. In fact, it would not be telling a lie to say he was totally stunned.

Yes, Dev, the apprentice rock star actually stopped in his tracks, on the platform, if you will forgive the pun, with people pushing him in the back and making that tutting noise.

To his amusement and to his small, tall and medium height, fat and thin, bald guys, who all seemed to have cigars jammed into the corner of their mouths.

There was also a vast array of women, 'dressed up to the dogs', as they say in the North, and they were wearing what appeared to be floppy hats, or small hats with feathers stuck into them at very strange angles. Stuck into the hats, not into the women you understand, and they were all happily chirping away, the women obviously, and not the hats.

Dev moved slowly to one side, edging his way out of the stampede, and waited for them to disappear through the ticket turnstiles.

After a few minutes they were gone and finally he stood alone on the platform with the two bags at his feet.

There, at the ticket turnstile was a medium tall, and here you need to remember that the great, and soon to be famous Dev, is only five foot seven and a half inches tall, the half inch, being especially important, as it makes him taller, when he is wearing his Cuban heeled boots, than most of his girlfriends... but not tall enough to be a policeman. A fact, that he had been eternally grateful for, at a recent careers advisors interview.

Well as I say, there at the ticket turnstiles was a medium tall, thin gentleman, in brothel creepers and a pair of blue ankle-strangler jeans. He wore a plain white T-Shirt and a heavy black leather jacket.

His face was genial, and Dev thought that he could have been about the same age as his eldest brother or even his youngest uncle, if he had one. But he doesn't.

The gent's whole appearance was topped off with a light brown, beautifully groomed, Teddy like quiff.

Now, it was not a fully blown Teddy Boy look. Not what you would call a late Fifties English Ted. No. But a very, very, chic, stylised early Fifties look. You know, much more of an Americana look, than an English Teddy Boy, if you know what I mean.

The whole effect was very like James Dean or even Sweet Gene Vincent. Yes that type of look with a soupcon of Montgomery Clift thrown in for seasoning.

"You must be Dev." Said the soft hesitant voice, as they walked toward each other.

"Yer." Dev replied simply.

"They are all here for the races, it's a night meeting." Continued Tony K, pointing to the last of the stampede as they retreated through the turnstile and into the waiting ranks of taxis, which soon sped them of to the race meeting.

"I'm Tony, Tony K."

"Everyone calls me that... 'cause no one can pronounce my surname. It's Polish, I was ten before I could even spell it," he smiled,

"Come on, I will carry one of those for you." He said and as he reached for the largest bag and Dev could not help but notice how Tony's slight frame rippled with hidden muscles.

"The shop is just through the 'Gate' and over the bridge, it's only two minutes."

"It's really great here in York but every couple of years, we get flooded and that costs the insurance man a fortune." Tony laughed again.

Tony chatted genially as they made their way to the Red Rhino HQ, which was a records shop on Gillygate, past the 'Bar' in the medieval wall, and over the limestone bridge on the edge of the city centre of York, which is a supremely beautiful old English city, for those who have never visited.

The shop was in a row of Georgian terraced buildings, on a road that curved away from the city and along by the riverside. They passed by a hairdresser's shop, a few craft shops, a jewellery shop, and a very trendy clothes shop, before they came upon the small frontage of the Red Rhino Record shop.

The shop window was covered in albums sleeves that hung in plastic wallets on the inside of the window, very like the runs of some invisible ladder.

Each album was startlingly decorated with brilliant artwork, and the vibrant colours leapt out and through the window towards Dev.

They entered, and an old fashioned bell chimed as the door pushed open.

On first impressions the shop was on the small side but Dev soon realised that it had been extended out towards the back. All its walls were covered in more of the plastic wallet ladder things, that where holding albums by bands whose names set Dev's mind a tingling.

It was a truly fantastic experience and for a moment he felt like he was an antiquarian scholar, who had been led, blind folded into a room and that the blindfold had suddenly been removed, and there he stood, regarding the wonders of the Library of Alexandra or some historic Hall of Knowledge.

Here the names of all the bands that he had ever read about, or listened to on the John Peel show, leapt from the walls. They stared him in the face. The great underground hits, and some that where even better than that, by bands that had had become so famous that they had even been on 'Top Of The Pops,' and had national radio play, on Radio One no less.

The name of every band that he had ever envied or tried to emulate was there, right before his eyes.

These were the bands that had been plastered all over the front covers of each single copy of the Melody Maker, Sounds and the NME that he had ever read. Bands like; The Fall, The Human League, Fad Gadget and The Membranes.

And the ceiling was plastered with posters, advertising the artist's tours, just like you see upon the boarded up buildings of our inner cities.

'This feels like heaven,' He thought to himself silently.

He had never seen anything like it. Of course back in Sheffield, there where a few good independent shops but they were like small market stalls in comparison to this.

Sheffield did have an HMV, which was doing its best to get involved in the scene... but it was really too large and impersonal, and not at all like this. Not a real, real, record shop. Oh, and there was also a WH Smiths and a Boots, which where full of chart orientated, sophomoric crap and Fraggle Rock posters. So they didn't really count. I mean who would buy records from a chemists, your Gran?

At a browser unit in the corner, there were two Italians guys, who were absolutely creaming themselves over a rare picture disc of a metal band they had just found, and at their feet was a huge pile of records, heaved into one of those wire supermarket shopping baskets, which they kicked along, from rack to rack, as they searched through this Aladdin's cave.

And of course there was the music.

Bob Marley's No Woman, No Cry was pounding out of the massive studio quality 'Little Red' Tannoy speakers, which were bracketed high up in the corners of the walls.

Tony led the way over to the counter. It was quite a small counter and behind it was a young man with a really trendy haircut, who, as it happens, was also on the small side.

"This is Mark," Tony introduced them,

"Mark, this is Dev from Bone Juice or is it Native?" Asked Tony quizzingly.

"Yer, both really I suppose." Dev replied, nodding at Mark and trying to look cool.

"Yer."

Tony made his way through the counter, and as he followed Dev realised that it was under the staircase of the flat above, and they went into a room at the back of the shop.

This was the warehouse and immediately Dev was struck by another rush of exhilaration, as his senses were over come by the sight of so much new vinyl as it glistened in the lights. There were just so many boxes of records. They were racked up, and spread out across the room, and all along the walls, and from the freshly printed sleeves issued the sweetest smell of printer's ink.

More records than Dev had ever seen. Thousands upon thousands of records, they were all over the place.

"The excitement of opening a box of new records, and seeing the sleeves for the first time, straight from the pressing plant is something you will never forget." Said Tony smiling,

"Yer, as you pull the album from the sleeve, the vinyl shimmers and glistens, and the smell of printers ink permeates your nostrils, and little threads of vinyl, twist and curl as they fall to the floor." Replied Dev, as he place Sam's bag, which was full of the Bone Juice singles onto the workbench.

They looked at each other and knew in that instance that they were kindred spirits.

The warehouse was hectic and although at first glance it may have looked disorganised, it really wasn't, and it soon became obvious to Dev, what looked like hectic disorganization, was in truth manic activity.

"Its our busy time." Tony said simply as he took a tape gun and masterly rapped a parcel ready for dispatch.

There were three other blokes working in the warehouse, and Dev was introduced to each in turn, Paul, Josh and Jake. They were busy answering the phone, which seemed to ring again, as soon as it was replaced on the holder, and they were taking those orders, and then boxing the different orders, ready for dispatch.

"You will have to forgive me for a few minutes Dev,"

"I have to get these orders ready for the carriage company. Securicor will be here in about twenty minutes and we have to be ready. We promise next day delivery." He laughed again.

In the corner of the warehouse, near the open back doors, was a huge pile of boxes, all taped up and labeled ready to go. Some were large and some smaller but there must have been enough to fill a van already.

"We have our own van that goes around the North, you know, Newcastle, Leeds, Hull, Sheffield, Manchester and Liverpool... but we have to ship to all the other shops," continued Tony.

"Here, put some tape on to that box will you?" He asked and passed Dev a tape gun.

Of course Dev immediately cut himself on it and Tony passed him a plaster from the first aid box saying,

"Maybe you would like to look around the shop, and later we can have a chat, and a beer. If you want to listen to something, just drop it on the decks."

I believe you want me out of the way Dev thought to himself.

"Yer. I will get out of your way for a minute."

Dev went back into the shop and watched the two Italian DJ's as they shuffled around the racks, checking every album, twelve-inch and seven-inch single in stock. They kicked the wire shopping basket along as they went. It was already full to the brim.

"Shall I put those to one side for you?" Mark asked them politely.

"Please. You will keep safe. We want to buy. We are important DJ's from Milan." Said the first Italian rather pompously.

"Here," Said Mark from behind the decks, as he handed them a seven inch single.

"This is just in. It's already selling like mad. I love it."

And he gave them a copy of Junior, as he also dropped the needle into the groove of another copy of the record.

The vinyl started to spin around on the Technics deck, and the sound of the Bone Juice single jumped out of the speakers.

Despite himself Dev couldn't help but be impressed, as it did sound rather good and he was very happy to see later, that two copies of the 'Junior' single were on the pile of records that the DJ's had purchased.

At about ten past six, post meridian as they say, they all left the shop through the front door. Tony stopped to lock up and set the alarm system, and then he led the way, as they headed off, over the bridge and to the gate or bar as they called it, and back into the heart of the city.

"Lets go in here," said Tony, as he entered the Lamb and Lion Inn.

"Jenny, my wife will be meeting us in twenty minutes or so."

They entered the small and very quaint pub, which had a great selection of music on the jukebox and a pool table in the back room.

"Here you go, try one of these. It's a local beer called Marston's, you will like it, I'm sure."

Dev noticed that it was a golden brown colour with a full white frothy head and that it had a very fruity taste.

They sat at a table in the corner, whilst Paul, Mark and Jake, went off to play pool with a forth chap that they obviously knew.

"And so to business, this is how we do the deal," Explained Tony,

"We sell the records to the shops for sixty nine pence, that's what we call the dealer price,"

"They sell it to the public for either ninety nine pence or one pound and five pence, depending... or sometimes even more... depending as I say, on whether they are a good shop or not,"

"We take a thirty percent fee, that's the distribution cost, from the dealer price for doing that, which has to cover our cost; the cost of distribution, delivery, Securicor's charges, you know, and invoicing. And of course any returns or faulty copies we may have to deal with."

He paused to take another mouthful of the beer.

"We all need to make a shilling after all. That gives you forty eight pence per single, after the distribution costs," He continued,

"So, that is..."

"One hundred and sixty eight pounds, for the three hundred and fifty singles." Said Dev, rather to loudly but as quick as a flash, as Tony stared at him.

"Sorry, it's just one of the things I do. I've always been good at maths. Just don't ask me to spell."

Tony looked surprised but he laughed along with him.

"One hundred and sixty eight pounds for the three hundred and fifty singles, plus... a tenner, for the train,"

He concluded and took a huge bundle of notes from his jeans pocket.

"It was only six quid."

Dev's eyes bulged and shot out on stalks, like the cats do in the cartoons, being as you know, a very honest fellow.

"I know but you came up here and spent your time with me and I really appreciate that," Tony answered in earnest.

"So here is one hundred and eighty quid. Is that OK?"

"Yer." After all it had been the quote of the day.

Later that night, after a brief visit back to the flat above the shop on Gillygate, which turned out to be were Tony and his wife lived, and to accommodate Jenny, who needed to collect something for a friend, Dev ate a curry with them, a nice chicken Jalfrezi, which you will remember is his favourite meal, in a small and brilliant Indian restaurant down by the riverside, the manager of which, seemed to know Tony intimately.

Later still, Tony saw Dev back to the station and on to the return train.

The train was full of small, tall and medium, fat and thin, bald guys, with cigars jammed into the corner of their mouths and a vast array of women, still 'dressed up to the dogs', but looking somewhat disheveled now.

They where boisterously enjoying themselves and one man in particular was slopping champagne all over the table, as he passed the bottle haphazardly over the top of the paper cups.

Dev smiled to himself as he watched the antics of one lady, who had obviously drunk slightly too much, as she danced provocatively with the harassed waiter or steward chap as he approached with his trolley.

"Sorry about the noise Sir... They have been to the races.... Can I get you anything? On the house like... seeing ... as it where."

Dev inspected the waiter or steward chap and his trolley with a look of gratitude and ordered a tin of Red Stripe.

There was about thirty-three quid in his left jeans pocket, which was what remained of his giro and the right hand pocket of his faded Levi's was stuffed with one hundred and eighty quid.

He was a happy young man, full of excellent food and beer. He had a single on sale around the world, which was about to start getting international airplay and club plays, since the two Italian DJ's had bought a copy each, and he was rich.

Well, he was rich in his own book. When you have to live on eighteen pounds a week and your rent is five and a half quid, then one hundred and eighty smasheroos is an absolute fortune.

He grabbed the ring-pull on the can, tugged and heard the familiar, spluttering sound.

"Yer!" He said and smiled to himself as he gratefully took a swig and looked out of the train window, as he watched the night roll by.

It was May 1980.

✪

3

Junior

A well-known fact about the telephone is that it never does what you want it to do. Most of the time it just sits there, moodily silent, like Greta Garbo on a first date, sulkily staring out of the window and blowing cigarette smoke at the world.

That is exactly what Dev's phone had seemed to be doing for an age now, nothing, absolutely nothing at all. It really was so very disappointing.

And then, just when you are least expecting it, when you have been lured into a false sense of security, the telephone springs into action with a nagging urgency, as if there is no tomorrow.

Dev's was nagging again, right now, Nag, Nag, Nag, it went.

Yes, at this very moment the phone was ringing its merry little head off, and the relentless sound eventually filtered into his consciousness.

Rising from his usual position under the duvet, he surfaced and reached a hand across the floor.

'This feels like Déjà Vu,' He thought as he sat up and grabbed at the phone.

"Yer?" He answered in his gruff morning tones.

"Hi Matey... this is Ryan Trent from Steel City Radio... is that Dev from Bone Juice?" Enquired the voice at the other end of the line.

"Yer." Dev adjusted his voice to meet the pleasant tones of the enquiry.

"You sent me your single, 'Junior.' And I... L-L-L... Love it!"

"I love it so much that I have been playing it on my show for a week now."

"Groovy." Interjected Dev, who was now fully awake.

"Ok... Listen Matey, would you like to come into the station and do an interview for us, and we can play the Steel City Radio, Rock Quiz game?"

"Yer?"

"Yer, I would. That would be groovie."

"OK. Thursday night, you need to be here at seven fifteen, as we are on air at eight, so please be prompt. Just drop into the reception and tell them who you are."

"Looking forward to it Matey. See ya then."

"Yer." Dev replied,

"See ya then."

The big glass and steel building stands on the corner of The Moor in the heart of Sheffield city centre and Dev arrived there ahead of time, it's just one of those things but some people hate to be late. His old teacher had drilled it into him that; 'There really is no excuse for it.'

The entrance to the radio station is in a huge glass atrium, and accessed by an intercom switch, and after only a moments hesitation, Dev press the button marked reception and a young ladies voice answered and asked,

"Yes, can I help you please?"

"Yer. Please, I'm here to see Ryan Trent."

"What name is it?" Asked the pleasant voice.

Dev paused for another moment and thought about the question, and he was not really sure what to say. His whole future could depend upon this one answer. Did he use his street name, or was this an official request from the authorities?

"I am Dev... from Bone Juice." He replied with a confidence that he really didn't possess.

"Yes. Ryan is expecting you. Please come up to the reception." Said the voice, as the buzzer buzzed.

The outer door opened and let Dev into a small entrance lobby. There were a couple of potted plants of some dubious species that had plastic woodchip shaped pieces, scattered around the top of their plastic pots, and an elevator. The plastic pots had been used as a deposit for people's fag ends, and Dev listened to the station, as it casually broadcast itself into the lobby, via small speakers that where located within the ceiling tiles.

Dev pressed the lift button and the doors opened. As he entered the elevator he noticed that there was only one button available to be selected. He pressed the button, and listen to the station as it casually broadcast itself into the lift.

The door opened with a swishing sound and he walked out into the reception area. The station was casually broadcasting itself into the reception area.

The reception area was a combination of vermillion red and soft grey with black window shades.

The receptionist desk was also black and looked like it had come from the posh part of the department store, which occupied the building across the square.

Behind the desk, looking reasonably bored with her impressive job, sat a very attractive young lady.

"Hello," She said simply,

"You must be Dev from Bone Juice?"

"Yer."

"Great, please sign in... here," She continued, handing him a ballpoint pen that had Steel City Radio emblazed along its side.

"I will tell Ryan you're here. Please take a seat and help yourself..."

"There is coffee," She pointed to a percolator on a small table.

"Or there are soft drinks available from the machine." And she picked up the phone.

Dev sat down on the grey seats, which matched the grey carpet with the red boarder, and he looked at the Music Week magazine that sat on the glass topped coffee table.

There was only one other person in the room. He was sat in the corner of the long settee and they looked at each other carefully, like cats do.

He was tallish, about the same height as Dev, and wore a black beret on his head. Dev notice absently that it was a perfect colour matched with the carpet.

Now, the wearing of this headgear was very daring, especially for Sheffield, where sales of the flat cap are still riding high in the consumer charts.

He also had a blue and white horizontally striped t-shirt and black leather trousers, that were slightly too tight for him, and which were held up with a thick leather belt, that had a massive Harley Davison buckle. He looked like a cross between an exotic biker and a French onion salesman.

Well, as Dev was noticing this, his own apparel was also being checked out. This was obviously correct for the apprentice rock star, and must have met with approval, because the French onion salesman, very nearly let a smile quiver upon his lips, as he flickered his eyes at Dev from behind their mascara.

The two of them had only been sat down for a few minutes, when the glass doors opened and a guy wearing a shell tracksuit came into the room. He had a mass of curly blonde hair, with big red glasses and a golden medallion hung on his semi-naked and equally curly, blonde haired chest.

"Hi," He said,

"I'm Ryan. Who is who? As they say." And he laughed.

"I'm Dev," Said Dev introducing himself.

"Pleased to meet you Matey." Said Ryan shaking hands.

"And I'm Julian." Said the Onion Salesman.

"Great to meet you too, Matey." Ryan continued as he shook Julian's hand in turn.

"Great. Come on through to the studio. We need to check the microphone levels and run through what were going to talk about tonight."

He led the way out of the reception area and down a corridor towards the back of the building. They took another lift, which had six buttons to select from, and they all listened to the station as it casually broadcast itself into the lift, which took them up three floors and then they made their way to the studio area.

✪

4

The Radio Interview

The colour scheme was ever present as they entered the studio. There was a round, black-stained wooden table, with four microphone stands hanging from it, like giant cranes hovering over a building site, and opposite each microphone was positioned an expensive executive office chair.

"Just take a seat and find yourself a set of head phones. You on this side Julian, and you here Dev."

They did this they where requested as he walked into the next room, where a studio technician was busily working at the studio control desk. Ryan took a seat himself in the control room and continued,

"Ok... Julian Matey, please tell me what you had for breakfast. Anything.... just sit still and talk to me... matey."

The technician looked at the volume meters, as Julian started to say that he had had coffee and brown bread, toasted with honey.

"And did you have cereal too?" Asked Ryan.

"No." He replied, as the technician came into the room and adjusted his microphone, moving it closer to Julian's head.

"Ok. That's cool." Said Ryan.

"Now, Dev. What did you have for breakfast?"

"Now't, I don't eat breakfast much. Can't afford it," Dev smiled,

"I just had a sausage roll from Greggs as I walked here from the bus station."

"And anything to drink?" Ryan enquired, as the technician adjusted the microphone.

"Only a tin of Red Stripe, at about five of the clock... post meridian." Dev replied with his boyish smile.

"Cool. That's great. OK."

And Ryan stood and walked back into the studio with a pile of records and a sheaf of papers.

He took the seat facing the window of the control room and started to speak,

"Today, I had cereal, with coffee and toast. I had marmalade on the toast. I had milk with two sugars in my coffee, and it was great. Is that mic ok, Mike?"

He asked the guy in the control room.

You could tell it was a running joke.

Almost.

"Fine." Was the bored reply of the unimpressed technician.

"Ok... this is what we're going to do." Ryan continued,

"I'm going to play a number of singles, then we will talk to Julian about his band's single, and what's happening,"

"And then I will ask about the release and how it is doing. Where you recorded it, and any gigs you have coming."

"Then we will play the single, and a few more from the pile. After about fifteen minutes, we will do the same with you Dev, and that, will take us to the top of the hour."

"After the news we will be back, and we will do the competition. You must have heard it before, right? I do it every week," He continued, without any pause for breath.

"We will then review the new releases," And he picked up a handful of singles,

"And I want you to tell me what you think of them."

"Then the public will ring in with their votes, and you get to pick the one who gets it closest to your choice, and they will win copies of all the singles that we have played tonight."

"It's fun... so just relax and take it easy."

"Does any one need the toilet or a drink?" He asked.

"Five minutes." Came the voice in the headphones.

"Ok, remember we are live, so no language please!"

"Here is the news." Came the voice.

Dev could feel his mouth starting to dry up, and he realised that he needed a wee, as soon as the show's introduction jingle started.

"Hi. You're listening to the Ryan Trent Show, on fabulous Steel City...Radi-oh." Ryan said with his presenters voice into the microphone.

"We are broadcasting directly to you."

"Across the whole of South Yorkshire, North Derbyshire and Lincolnshire."

Jingle music.

"OK ... You wonderful people.... Here's what we have for you in tonight's fabulous show."

More jingle.

"We have a great show... with loads of new releases from the best of the indie talent across the country... and even more great local music."

More jingle.

"And then we have interviews with tonight's guests... Julian from the band 'Terror Tonight.' "

More jingle...

"And Dev from the great band... Bone Juice."

"Two of the hottest new talents emerging from Sheffield this year."

"Say hello boys."

"Hello," They both said shyly at the same time.

Dev's voice being a little lower in register than Julian's.

More jingle,

"And here is the first track." Announced Ryan...

✪

"... And now here is Julian from the band 'Terror Tonight'..."

"So... Julian... tell us all what's happening with the record... Julian?"

"We have just signed a major deal with Polydrone Records... and we're releasing the single in the next month or so... And some great dance mixes are being done by one or two of the up and coming DJ's, and there will be some appearances on a tour of night clubs that is going to be organized."

"Well that sounds 'R-Really Gre-at' and really so... ex-citing," Announced Ryan,

"And here is the single. Let's give it a spin...."

"This is 'Get On Up You' by the Terror Tonight. Let's have a listen shall we..." He said, as he spoke over the entire intro section.

✪

And so it continued. And just as Dev was wondering if he could take any more 'Matey' from this guy, it was done.

Dev's first radio appearance and interview had taken about three minutes in all but seemed to last about three second, and before he knew what was happening, they were at the top of the hour and then into the news.

"It's going great lads. Your both naturals."

✪

Later, Steel City Radio ordered a taxi to take Dev back home. He was thrilled, a taxi, man... And on their account too, which meant that he didn't have to pay a penny for it. The driver even opened the door for him as he walked towards it.

'Now, this is style, and I hope that I can get used to it.'

He thought as the taxi wound its way through the streets of Sheffield and out towards Ranmoor Road.

✪

5

Where the Fuck is Reykjavik?

The phone was ringing again. What was going on! Dev's inner voice screamed and for a moment he actually contemplated not answering it at all, and just turning over and going back to sleep again.

But the phone now had a life of its own; and just ignored his wishes. It rang, and it rang and it rang again, until it was sated by an answer.

Dev rolled over keeping the duvet tightly wrapped around himself and lay flat upon his belly as he answered.

"Yer?" He said gruffly.

He was getting fed up with all these early morning calls. Well to be fair, early mid-morning calls.

"Oh, Hi. This is Dev from Bone Juice... Yes... Please."

It was a strange voice, with an even stranger accent. One that he could not have placed in a thousand years.

"Yer." He said more gruffly.

"One minute please."

There follow a conversation, at the other end of the line, which seemed to be conducted in a foreign language.

Dev had no idea what that language was either. But the guy was talking, ten to the dozen, to someone in an extremely frantic way. Then the voice came back to Dev and said:

"Hi Dev, your live on Radio Reykjavik."

Then there was a piece of music that must have been a jingle or a station ID.

"We wanted to tell you... that this morning, your single 'Junior...' is number One in Radio Reykjavik."

"How does that feel? ... And remember please. It's live!" He laughed.

Dev sat up and thought for a moment;

'Where the fuck is Reykjavik?'

"Yer... That's really great news. I'm really very pleased that you like it... Erm..." He said slowly, in his clearest English accent.

The voice continued and asked some more questions, and in all honesty Dev later struggled to remember what they were, or what he had actually said in answer to them.

Then the voice at the end of the telephone asked,

"Will you come to Iceland to play for us?"

"Yer. Absolutely anytime." He laughed.

"That was being great."

'Iceland?' Dev thought, 'Reykjavik is in Iceland?'

"Everyone here in Iceland loves your single, and we want that you to come and play for us, don't we?"

Here there seemed to be a cheer. Dev couldn't understand how or why... but the voice continued,

"This is Ziggi Ivorsson."

"Live!"

"I am here wiz Dev... from the Bone Juice on Radio Reykjavik!"

"And we have an exclusive news."

"And you all hear him saying that, he is coming to play for us.... "

"Live at Rock in Reykjavik"

More cheers from the taped audience.

"And now... Dev let's all listen to the single again..."

And in the background Dev could hear the first part of the synthesizer introduction to 'Junior' as it started to play.

'It's not a wind up!'

"Hey... Ziggi again," Said the voice,

"Dev that was being great! You will speak with Elêna now, she who will arrange for the airplane tickets and money for you to come?"

"Thanks again, bless bless."

And then Dev could hear Ziggi speaking in Icelandic again, but the only words that he could make out were 'Bone Juice' and 'Junior.'

✪

6

Big in Iceland

"Hi Dev." It was the sweetest voice he had ever heard.

"Mine name is Elêna. Do you have a fax machine? Or a Telex address there please?"

"So I can be sending to you the details?"

"A what?"

"Er...Well, do you have an address were I can telegraph to you?"

"Yer." Dev said and spelt out his address in Sheffield for her.

"OK. I will send you a telegram... with the details of the concert, and were to collect the plane tickets from,"

"And we will Fed Ex the contract to you. Also I need your bank account details... please."

"Yer, Ok" He replied softly, it had been a strange morning already,

"Just a minute." And he dropped the phone back on the duvet and thought for a few seconds.

Bank account?

Fed Ex?

Dev scrambled over to the wardrobe and pulled out its one low draw, his nakedness available for the whole of the Ranmoor bus, which was cueing in the midday traffic on the road outside the window, to observe and immediately he started to rummage through the draw for a bank statement.

It was there at the bottom of some letters that where piled up, the majority of which were unopened and unpaid bills, and he grabbed it up and almost skipped back to the phone.

"Here are the details." He said as he continued to supply her with the information she had requested.

"OK... We send to you the contract and then get the tickets, and send the fee."

"Can you get to the airport?"

"Which one?" Dev asked.

"It will being Gatwick, I am thinking."

"Do you live near there?"

"No. I live about two hundred miles from there." He gave a short laugh.

"Ok. No problems."

"I will speak to our travel people, and they will make arrangements for a car or for a train ticket, to get you to the Airport, and then ring you back in... two hours... please."

"Is that being ok?"

"Yer... that's groovie."

"That's Fine. Ok. I see you later... please. Bless bless."

And the line went dead.

"Shit!" Dev exclaimed as he sat back down on the crumpled duvet.

"Shit... Reykjavik!"

"Shit... Iceland! "

"Shit. Yer!"

And he wondered what a Fed Ex was.

✪

7

The Early Morning Rain

The light grey clouds obscured the early morning sun and suddenly the temperature seemed to drop, as a brief shower began to bounce rhythmically, against the dirty window of the northern town apartment.

The phone was ringing again and Dev jumped on it. It was only halfway through its second clarion call, when he answered it.

"Yer?"

The dawn light had awoken Dev and he had been up and showered, dressed and was silently sipping a coffee and trying to spoon out the congealed blobs of milk, which had turned during the night, 'cos he didn't have a fridge, and he had not dared to leave the flat, to walk to the shops, in case he had missed the call, and after all, who can afford to buy fresh milk every day.

The coffee looked disgusting, and he thought of the frozen north, as he fished a large iceberg-like lump out and flicked it against the woodchip wallpaper with the dark stained spoon.

Then, just for good measure you understand, he managed to spill a large slop of his coffee on to the floorboards, as he tried to juggle the phone, the coffee, and scratch his arse, all at the same time.

Absently, he watched the coffee as it spread into a large lagoon and began to seep through the gaps in the floorboards, like a river that had burst its banks and was flooding the surrounding low lands.

"Dev, Dev, Dev, Dev, Dev..." Tony K said as he pressed his ear to the phone,

"Dev, How the hell... are you?"

"Yer, I'm very good thanks." Was his honest reply.

"Reykjavik eh?"

"Yer,"

"How did you know?"

"Oh, they rang us to get your contact details." Tony explained simply.

"Yer... They want me to go over and play." Dev said, still not really believing it to be true.

"I know... We have had the Swedish on the line about you too. They want to take the single for Scandinavia." Tony stated in his soft voice.

"What does that mean?"

"Well, It means that they want to license the single and release it over there. It would mean a load of promotion for you. And possibly some money too."

"Yer? Brilliant."

"In the mean time, I need to get some more copies for the single for the U.K., and the exporters."

"Iceland want two thousand now, and the rest of Europe, and maybe America, will be jumping on to it soon. Have you got any more?"

"No, you took the last ones." Dev replied, feeling his heart sink with every word.

"Well... Can you get some more made up... Or would you like me to do that for you?"

"Who did you use to manufacture them?" Tony enquired in his hesitant manner.

"Well... A company called Delta Press did the sleeves and the labels for us, and Makin' Records did the vinyl."

"That's cool. We have accounts with both of them."

"Shall I do this for you?" He asked after a moment's silence,

"... 'Cos we may as well make five thousand units."

"Five thousand. I can't afford that." Dev said feeling his enthusiasm drop to an all time low.

"I mean that will be nearly twelve hundred and fifty quid."

"Yes. About thirteen hundred with the tax," Tony continued,

"But I'm happy to put this on our account for you. We have to charge ten percent for handling, which I think is fair, I mean if we sell five thousand, you will make about two grand, after costs.

"Yer... Fuck! Yer. OK. Book it Dano. Groovie."

"Yer." Dev added just to be clear on the subject.

"That's cool then. First we will need to sort out some of the details and get things co-ordinated for you."

"Hey Tony, what's a fax machine?" Dev asked hesitantly, knowing that he was looking naive in Tony's eyes.

"Well, it's basically a photocopier which sends pictures or a letter down the telephone line. Why?"

"Yer. That's well cool! And what's a Fed Ex?"

"They are an international carriage company. Why?"

"Oh, they said they would Fed Ex me a contract, 'cos I didn't have a fax machine."

"Contract. What for?"

"For some gig they are talking about." Dev answered softly.

"Well that's great news."

"It will certainly help with the Scandinavian angle."

"Look Dev, if you need any help with this... Don't be scared to ask."

"We have an office full of equipment here and we will be happy to help you." Offered Tony

"Yer? Groovie man. Thanks."

"Ok. I'm going to sort out the details for manufacture."

"Here is our fax number. Write it down. And don't be scared to use it."

"I'm more than happy for us to pass messages on, after all were all on the same side."

Tony gave out the number and Dev scrawled it in pencil, on the woodchip papered wall above the mattress, as the coffee left islands of congealed milk on the floorboards, and disappeared in little waterfalls, into the depths of the unknown underworld.

✪

8

The Telephone is Ringing

The phone was screaming at him.

"Why do music industry people ring musicians at stupid times? Do they really think we get up at eight of the clock, anti meridian?" Dev asked the wardrobe.

"Anyway, and I'm not complaining, well not too much, because the phone is ringing... and it has rung more this month than the previous three months."

"The previous three months, what am I talking about? The last year..." Dev laughed as he continued talking to himself, and he strode across the bare wooden floor to the window and looked out at the mid-May blooms.

'Even the last two years', He thought, the phone never rang. And the bill was always due, so his service had been restricted more often than not, to inward calls only.

And he was getting used to it ringing and really, secretly hoping it would ring.

He felt like Thomas Hardy, waiting expectantly... anticipating, furtively desiring to be belittled by the woman that he adored.

It was so exciting, more exciting than almost anything else he had ever done.

Only one or two things had ever come close. Live performance, sex, and football. Ok so that is three but I am sure that you get the gist.

Live performance was the tops, and football was brilliant but he was crap at it, so now he restricted himself to just watching. When he could afford to that is.

And so the phone was ringing, and it rang again and he was there, dressed, washed, shaved and all coffee'd up and ready for action.

"Hello." He said.

"Oh yes, good morning Sir, is that Mr Dev... Bone Juice?"

"This is Federal Express, we have a delivery for you... but were having trouble finding your address, can you give me directions please, so that I can radio them on to the driver?"

About ten minutes later the driver was walking up the path and Dev was out of the room and opening the front door.

"Good morning Sir," Said the driver.

"I have a delivery for a Mr Dev Bone Juice?"

"Yes. That's me mate."

And Dev signing the driver's form and said his thanks as he started to close the door.

"Getting deliveries now, eh Dev?"

Commented Sam, the beautiful girl from the flat upstairs, who still refused to sleep with him. She stepped aside for the Fed Ex man, who licked his lips at the sight of her, as she made her way into the house.

"Yer... It's from Iceland you know." Dev told her trying to look cool in his nonchalant way.

"What are you doing home already?"

"I've just nipped back in my lunch hour to get the rent book. I forgot to take it with me. You know the rents due?"

"Yer. I'm a bit skint this week."

"Don't tell Robby, if you see him... tell him I'm out gigging." Dev smiled at her, flicking his eyelashes. And she just laughed.

"Same old Dev, eh?"

She made her way through the hall and started to climb the stairway to heaven, and he watched as she ascended, bending his neck to glimpse those wonderfully long legs.

The cream coloured beanbag, sat in the middle of the floor and Dev sat on the bag. Well we say cream, it had once been white, but that was a long time ago. As Dev sat, he opened the cardboard Fed Ex envelope and withdrew the sheaf of papers.

These were the documents from Radio Reykjavik that he had been waiting two days for.

He gave them a quick perusal, like you do, scanning them for the important bits.

Time. Date. Money.

"Ok, they wanted us to play a short set of twenty minutes, at the Summer Equinox Festival, on Saturday 21st June, at some place... How do you... unpronounceable... and they would pay me..." He spoke to the air,

"Two thousand Dollars!"

"Dollars what's that in real money?"

"Plus expenses, and to provide flights, hotels, food, drinks and cars etc., etc."

"Sounded reasonable," He smiled.

"Groovie."

Dev sipped at his coffee and started to read the contracts again.

The basics were fine but he needed to know exactly what they wanted Bone Juice to do.

Now this was important, because, if you know anything at all about Bone Juice, you will understand that there have been more members in and out of the band, than soldiers in the foreign legion.

Now, this is not because Dev is a prima donna or even difficult to work with. You all know that Dev is a pussycat.

But Bone Juice was really a one-man band. Oh, he had his regular musicians that he counted on but when push came to shove, it was down to himself.

Part of the problem was the very concept of Bone Juice. It was totally foreign to most of the musicians that he knew. Well, to be honest, just about all of them.

They just couldn't understand how you could have a rock band without a guitarist or a drummer.

It was fair to say the local musicians just didn't get it at all and Dev had been having real problems getting people on board with the idea.

The problems were compounded because Dev had been in all those traditional bands since the age of fourteen.

But Bone Juice was different. He had a dream, a vision, and he was trying to make something different.

This was also not really helped by the fact that the small market town of Axholme, in which he had lived, prior to moving to Sheffield, was a bit stuck in its ways.

I mean when he had returned from London, after playing in a punk band there, he had been publicly scorned and laughed at for his hairstyle, and more than once he had been threatened with violence for walking down the street in his ankle stranglers.

Punk was something that had happen five years before, but still had not permutated into the subconscious of the locals.

It was a generation thing, and a reaction to the politics of the time. Punk was a movement. And it was as alien to the people of Axholme as Ziggy Stardust was to Dev's Gran.

And that, after all, was the point.

✪

9

It's Only Rock 'n Roll

Now here dear reader you will have to forgive me. I suppose I had better tell you about it from the beginning, I hope this doesn't confuse you all but if I miss this bit out of the story, you may have trouble later on understanding what I am talking about.

I know a good storyteller would not do it this way, but your kind of stuck with me now, and sometimes my mind does tend to roam all over the place.

It all started back in the day...

The summer of '71, in the rural town of Axholme, which snuggles contentedly on the boarders of Lincolnshire, Nottinghamshire, and Yorkshire, had been a glorious summer, and a young Dev had sweated his arse off, wearing a thick school blazer, that he was not allowed to remove, whilst sitting his O level school exams, in the sweltering heat of the school gymnasium.

Unfortunately, due to a cycling accident that had nearly cost him his life, he had also broken his collarbone, his right collarbone, which meant that he had to struggle manfully onwards and write all his answers with his left hand. The ink blots and smudges where absolutely everywhere on those essays.

Before the cycling accident that had resulted in said broken appendage, Dev had been playing bass with a couple of bands at the school, and had generally being having a jolly good time.

Anyway one day, in early October that year, a school friend of his had approached him with a message.

"The band needed a bassist, and they asked me to tell you, that they want you to go along, and try out with them. So... if you would like to come down and audition for them, give them a call." The friend had delivered the message.

The band was called The Steaming Turds and Dev had heard of them.

They had a good local reputation, and they had played at some of the nightclubs in and around the town, and the students union at the local art college, a gig Dev had actually been to. They were not just your average covers band, oh no, they wanted to write their own material.

The musicians in the band were all older than Dev, a lot older, they went into pubs and smoked, and had cars, and girlfriends and flats, and everything, and Dev was still a spotty little oik, who had just done his school exams.

At first they had not really been sure about having Dev in the band but they did have a gig coming up, and they needed the money from that gig, and they had to find someone, and so, after a quick audition, in which Dev was told that 'He had done OK' they said;

"Yer come to the pub on Saturday lunch. And we can have a chat."

Now, Dev, a young man of fine moral principles, had never actually been into a pub before... And the idea of entering one during the period known as luncheon time was a new concept indeed. This was such a alien thing for him to do that he almost had second thoughts about the matter, almost.

As Dev walk down the high street towards the White Swan public house, he could hear Ride A White Swan spilling from the speakers of a clothes shop doorway, and he decided that this was indeed a good omen.

The band where sat on the benches around a table in the front bar. The front bar is at the front of the pub, naturally, and this particular pub has the tallest front bar in the kingdom, it being six feet three inches high in all.

Dev had to stand on his tippy toes and reach up to collect his pint of John Smiths from the barmaid, who gave him a sweet smile but really knew that he was to young to be served.

He took his seat on a stool at the table with the band and was introduced to everyone.

"Jack, is our roadie, and this is Kim my Girlfriend, and Tracy, Sean's girl and Sean you know. Look..." Said Rick, pausing to slurp some of the beer and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and then take a long draw on the hand-rolled cigarette, that he held backwards, cupped inside his fingers and his palm,

"Look pal... You're a bit young, but we like you... So were gonna give you a try out, and see how it goes. OK?"

"Yer." Dev replied, trying to keep cool, whilst taking his first sip of a beer.

"We've got a gig next Saturday. In Newark, like. So we need to rehearse a bit. Have you got your own gear? Amps 'n stuff?"

"Yer."

"Great. There is just one other problem!"

"What's that?" Dev asked the big guitarist.

"Our rhythm guitarist has left. He didn't want to be in a band with a kid, like..."

"And his wife was giving him a hard time, what with the job 'n' all, and his kids..."

"And he was like, real mates with the old bassist." Sean the drummer chipped in with his two-penneth.

"Anyway he's decided to pack it all in. So, do you know a rhythm guitarist?" Rick finished, as he took another drag on his rollup.

"Yer. I do, but he is about the same age as me, maybe a bit younger. But he is really good." Dev told them.

"That's great then. Can you get him to come to the Community Hall tomorrow afternoon, and we can rehearse?"

"Ok. I will see what I can sort out. Have you got a phone number?" Dev asked.

"No." Said Rick,

"But Kim has a phone." And he finished his pint in one large gulp, stood, and took two strides across the room, back to the bar.

Kim just looked sultry, as she sat in the corner of the room. She flashed her dark mascara eyes and shuffled her mini shirt down a bit and said,

"Here. I will write it down for you."

And she tore the top off of a beer mat.

Dev drank his first pint in a pub and had one more, whilst Hawkwind pounded out of the Jukebox.

'I've got a Silver Machine...' He thought,

'Groovie.'

He was sick on the dustbins, at the back of the Eagle and Lion, as he walked through the market place.

The late October of 1971 had been unexpectedly mild.

✪

10

Milo

Milo was someone that Dev had known for a few years.

Not a friend but a mate, more than an acquaintance, if you know what I mean. He was at a local secondary school, so Dev didn't really see him very much during term time, it was only when Dev came home for the holidays that they got to see each other.

Yet they had always got on well, they had jammed together once or twice, and they both knew some of the same people on the local music scene, and all in all, Milo was a very, very good guitarist. The best Dev knew in fact.

Milo would sit in his bedroom and practise for three hours every night, playing along to records, and he could play his scales faster than anyone Dev had ever seen.

"He knows all about music too, you know, notes and chords and stuff, even when they are written down. He told me once that he was having clarinet lessons but I didn't know if I believed him." Dev had told Rick.

Dev walked up the long drive that led to Milo's home, which was a massive detached house on a leafy suburban road, located, as it happens, on the very next street to the old house that had belonged to Dev's Grandma.

Dev was still feeling dizzy from the consumption of his first few pints of beer, and as he looked at the house, he wondered again about the rumour that Milo's father was indeed a Noble Émigré, who had escaped from the Balkans during the war.

As you may have guessed, Milo's parents were Yugoslavian, or Serbian, or something, and they spoke that language at home. They were lovely people, happy and friendly, and they had converted an old Victorian manse into a kind of suburban mini farm.

After a few hurried Yugoslavic syllables had been shouted up the staircase, Milo appeared from his bedroom, where he had been continuing his relentless practice on his Les Paul copy.

They took a stroll in the garden, amongst the chickens and cabbages, and eventually they were inevitably drawn to the old stable block, that stood at the bottom of the garden. Here a rusty park bench rested against the sandy yellow brick wall.

Dev took a seat and leaned back whilst he explained the situation to Milo.

"It's like this mate," He began,

"I've been asked to join a band, a real band, you know... Who are gigging, and they have a van, like, with a roadie... And a P.A... And an agent, with paid gigs and everything... And we need a guitarist."

"And like, you're the best one I know."

"Oh... And we've got a gig on Saturday." He smiled,

"So... How about giving it a bash and seeing how it goes?"

Milo's face transformed, from his normal pasty off white, to an embarrassed bright red, and then back to a pale white again, as he fiddled with his hands and scratched his pink ears.

"Yer, alright," He whispered shyly,

"What kinda stuff is it?"

"Rock." Dev stated with a massive smile and that, as they say, was more or less that.

It's fair to say that Milo seemed a bit taken aback. Surprised that he should have been asked to join a band, with people he had never met before, but then again so had Dev, and they were both young, and having the opportunity, to be in a gigging band, who had a van and that did real gigs, not just the youth clubs and charity fates, that was the lot of your average young band, was just too much for either of them to take on board.

✪

11

No Rehearsal

"No Rehearsal this week lads." The flat-capped caretaker informed them, as he leaned on his brush, and waved his Park Drive fag in the air.

He flicked the tab end with a practised ease, out across the uncut lawn that decorated the front of the community hall and continued.

"Strike committee have got priority. I'd get thee coal in smart like, if I wa' thee." He stated simply and then coughed and spluttered and gobbed a green un' out across the lawn, in the same trajectory as the fag end, and his aim was true.

The miners were voting up on strike action again, and demanding a forty three percent pay rise. It seemed that a strike was imminent, especially now that the late October nights were starting to bite.

And so, after a bit of a panic and some quick re-arranging, the rehearsal took place in the stable block at the back of Milo's house, and was actually limited to just the one evening. Well limited to two hours on the one evening to be exact.

The reason for the brevity of the rehearsal being that 'The band,' which obviously describes the Sean and Rick partnership, had to do things with their girlfriends.

And so for the two hours, the four of them crowded the drums and all the amps into a small room of the stable block and they let it rip. After a few false starts, they pretty much fell into a natural groove and followed Rick's lead.

Now there was no denying that Rick and Sean did have a groove. It was a groove that had little fills, and stabs that they hit together, and once Milo and Dev had picked up on these, then the sound started to roll.

So to say the rehearsals went fine is an understatement. But because the rehearsal time was so limited the band only had the time to learned about twelve songs, which were all in the same key and were all basic twelve bar blues.

They consisted of what the musicians out there would call standards. You know, twelve bars song by bands like The Beatles, Chuck Berry, Status Quo etc., and some songs that Dev hadn't heard before, one which was called Coast to Coast by Ducks Deluxe, a London Pub Scene band, who Rick loved and whom Dev would also later come to cherish too. Sadly though, they turned the masterly three-minute song into a fifteen-minute, guitar-break strew monster.

But it rocked.

Another song was entitled Proud Mary by and act named Credence Clearwater Revival.

About ten years later Dev actually got to hear this song on the radio, and he says that they slaughtered it. And not in a good way!

Rick and Sean left in the car, driven by Kim, or Tracy, as Milo and Dev sat on the iron bench, that still stood against the sandy yellow brick wall and they looked at each other and smiled.

"This thing is happening man. We are in a band with a van, and a gig, and an agent, and a PA." Said Milo as he beamed at the world.

✪

12

The Great North Road

And so the big day came and Dev, looking debonair, arrived at Milo's house, where they had left their gear, at five of the clock, postmeridian, promptly as arranged.

Milo was also ready. His hair was fluffy, straight from the blow dryer and his face was shining, a bright red, some what like a beetroot, as if it had been scrubbed assiduously from left to right and back again. Dev was not surprised later when he found out that it actually had. Apparently Milo's mother had not wanted him to embarrass his fellow countrymen.

Dev and Milo collected their things and waited nervously for the band to arrive, and they waited.

The band turned up in a convoy and they where late. It was now nearly Five forty-five.

The lead was taken by Jack, the cheese-cloth shirt wearing, cowboy booted, tall, thin roadie with a chronic nasal problem and a mass of shoulder length, curly, bright red hair, who arrived in a big blue transit van, which was followed by two cars, a little Mini and a red Vauxhall, both packed with girlfriends and an entourage of people that neither Dev nor Milo knew but who were the band's mates.

After the van was loaded up, which took only about ten minutes or so, Milo and Dev jumped in and sat in their allocated seating, on top of the speaker cabinets, in the back of the van with Rick, whilst Sean rode shot gun and they headed off to Newark.

They drove down the Great North Road and as they went Rick and Sean decided upon the running order of the songs to be performed or the set-list as professionals call it.

"Right, we will open up with Great Balls of Fire, and then go straight into Proud Mary," Rick informed them,

"Then, I will introduce the band and we will do 'I Saw Her Standing There' and then into 'Johnny B Goode' and we will finish the first set with a long version of 'Rollover Beethoven.'

Remember everything is in G, except the ones that aren't, and I will give you the nod as to which is which. Dev, you can do backing vocals... and sing along on harmonies the best you can."

"And Milo can do every other lead break. Just rip 'em of in the right key and we will be fine."

"What's a set?" Milo asked.

They headed down the Great North Road and the signs for Mansfield loomed up and went passed.

"They're are a few other songs we need to learn, to fill out the other sets, and we will need to do three sets in all." Rick announced through a cloud of smoke, as he sat on an upturned speaker with his guitar in the back of the van.

"Here is the first one; it goes like this."

'It goes like this?' Dev thought and he looked at Milo.

"How long do we have to play for?" Dev asked Rick.

"Oh, about two hours," Was Rick's simple reply,

"But we get seventy five quid for it... and all the beer you can handle."

"We split the money five ways, equally, with Jack getting his share to cover the van and petrol."

I looked at Milo whose shiny red face had just gone a greyish white.

"But... We only learnt about forty minutes worth of songs" Dev responded.

"Yer. Don't worry," said Sean,

"By the time we get to the last set, the audience will be so pissed, that they wont notice if we play the first set again!" He and Jack broke into a manic laughter.

"Anyway, learn these for the middle set and we will be fine." Continued Rick from the back of the van.

Jack sped on down the motorway alternating between snuffling and sneezing.

"Just remember... they are all twelve bars, apart from the ones that aren't and we will be all right." Added Rick.

Now I don't know if I have mentioned this but anyone who had ever met Rick instantly knew he was a Status Quo fan.

It may have been the long, dirty blonde hair, which hung down to his waist or the faded denim shirt and blue jeans, or the leather jacket with Quo painted on its back. To be honest I'm not sure which it was but some how you just knew.

"Here's a Status Quo one that we will do. It goes Down, Down, Deeper and Down..."

" You come in when Sean hits the roll on the toms. And we will do that one and Spinning Wheel Blues, which you know already, as a medley, which should take us about twenty minutes or so for the last set."

"Just remember. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, lead break, chorus, lead break, chorus and back to the to verse and play it all again."

"Change it, when I give you the nod, and keep going until Sean shouts to end it."

"Don't worry... Just follow me." Interjected Sean, inhaling deeply, as he and Jack burst into giggles again.

I saw Milo looking at me with his white shiny face, and his scared blue eyes, and I knew just what he was thinking, and to which god he was praying.

✪

13

The Road to Newark

It was already dark when the convoy pulled into the car park. They arrived with a squeal of tires and a spray of cinder ash.

The Railway Men's Club in Newark was a small place but as Dev was to learn later, one of the more up market of the working men's social clubs.

It had a stage, which was decorated with red plush velvet curtains and which was about twelve feet wide and six feet deep.

A small dressing room, that was off, to the rear, contained a mirror, a corner worktop with a sink, and two doors, one that led up a few steps to the stage and one that opened on to the car park, and through which the band could bring their equipment.

The Concert Room was about seventy feet long in all and it had a bar that ran from the end of the stage, all the way down the left to the main entrance doors at the front of the club.

The room was gracefully arranged with round tables near the stage and longer oblong tables to the rear of the room. The seats all had the same red plush velvet upholstery.

Apparently there was a Games Room on the other side of the building, which was adjacent to the bar but Dev never saw that at all.

The equipment was loaded in and the band started to set it up as the Concert Secretary, a chap in a shiny late fifties suit, with a Bobby Charlton comb-over, and a thin moustache, started to complain to Rick.

"Under the terms of our contract, you should have been here one hour and fifty minutes ago."

"I have already been on the phone to the agent, to make sure you were on your way, and to register my dissatisfaction!" He told Rick with a slight lisp.

"You had better be on in ten minutes... Or else the bingo will be late!" And turning he walked away.

Jack helped Sean with the drum kit, while the girls and the entourage went to the bar and got the drinks in for the band.

Milo hid behind the van, and was sick down the knife edged crease of his new, camel coloured, corduroy trousers.

The drum kit filled the stage. Rick was on the left of the kit, whilst Milo and Dev where on the right. If you breathed in as you past, there was just enough room to squeeze between the front of the stage and the drums but only if Sean didn't hit the symbols, while you where passing.

And as the clock touched Eight O'clock, post meridian, the concert secretary blew into the squealing microphone and lisped,

"Lady's and Gentlemen, the Newark Railway Men's Club has the great pleasure of introducing tonight's entertainment... Thee Screaming Thirds...Of Axholme."

The silence was followed by a loud squeal on the microphone.

"Please order your drinks from the bar."

"The artiste's will be performing in a few minutes..." He sniffed,

"... After which we will have the first round of bingo."

"Tonight's jackpot, which is sponsored by Henderson's Lawn and Seed... stands at a wonderful...six hundred pounds!"

"Six hundred quid... now that is some expensive weed."

Sean whistled, as Jack fell about giggling.

✪

14

Great Balls of Fire

On the Thursday night, before the big gig, there had been the usual Top of the Pops television show.

This was the only weekly music program on television in the kingdom and it featured all the hit pop artists. And in 1971, everyone, including your Gran would religiously watch it.

On this particular Thursday evening, the best band by far had been Slade, who were singing Cos I Luv You, a brilliant song, and they where without doubt one of the few bands worth watching on the whole program, the other being Rod Stewart with his song Maggie May.

The rest of the show was dominated by the artists the likes of The Bay City Rollers, Showaddywaddy and Mud.

Now back in these dark distant days, several years before video had been invented, all the bands that appeared were in fact miming to their performances.

Lip-sync as the pros call it nowadays.

Now, Slade's drummer, Don Powell, had set their song off with a brilliant bit of showmanship. He had place little bits of silver tinsel all over the toms of his kit, and as the band hit the first chorus, and he rolled the fill around the toms, the tinsel flew up into the air and it looked absolutely brilliant, as it exploded in a shower and drifted slowly back downwards, twinkling and dazzling in the stage lights.

Now, you must remember that this was back in the dim and distant past, the days before bands had digital or techni-coloured light shows and video effects. So, as I say the effect was brilliant and everyone had been talking about it everywhere you went.

Sean had been so impressed, that he decided the same idea would be great in our intro, and kick the set off with a big bang.

We had decided to open the set with Great Balls of Fire, the Gerry Lee Lewis classic. Do you remember it?

It starts with a big, fast, Der-der, Der-der.

This does, as I'm sure you know, involve a massive fill on the floor and rack toms.

There was only one problem.

"Tinsel," Sean had been informed, was not available in Axholme.

"No, you needed to go to Sheffield for that!" Sniffed Mrs Waterton, who ran the local post office.

And so Sean was made to improvise.

Well, when I say there was only one problem. I am lying. There where two problems in reality.

The other problem was that he hadn't mentioned his plans to the rest of us!

And so, we walked on to the stage, behind the curtain and took our places. Milo's face was like a set of traffic lights. Shiny red, green and then strangely white, and then back to shiny red again and even Dev could feel the collywobbles bouncing in his stomach.

The concert secretary's microphone squealed again, as he blew into it and then tapped it twice, just to make sure he was deafening all of the people, all of the time, and he said over the PA system;

"And so, tonight's special guess-sst, who are here to provide you with top class entertainment, Ladies and Gentlemen, please put your hands together for........Thee... Tweeting Birds."

The red velvet plush curtains swung back and we stormed into the opening stab of Great Balls of Fire!

Der-der! Der-der!

✪

15

Goodness Gracious

Unable to purchase tinsel, Sean had shown great ingenuity and had improvised brilliantly. He had used the only things that Mrs Waterton, of the newsagents cum post office, had to offer.

The only thing that he could find in that whole shop, that would give anything like the same effect, the very same effect that the drummer from Slade had achieved on Top of the Pops the previous Thursday.

He had bought talcum powder.

One, Two, Three... Clicked Sean on his sticks and we were off!

Der-der! Der-der!

"You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain..."

Rob growled the opening line, as Dev jumped in the air and played the two double G's that started the song and Sean hit the toms.

A huge cloud of white flew up into the air and rolled out across the stage.

The cloud was so thick that Dev could not see his bass guitar, even though it was fastened around his neck, but like true professionals, they continued and some how Dev made it to the microphone...

"You kissed me baby, Woo... feels good..." Dev screamed.

To be fair the band where not altogether sure that those are the correct lyrics, but to be honest, as a band, they didn't really pay much attention to details like that, they just rattled into the chords and ploughed on, and some how came out the other end in triumph, if you know what I mean.

After all it is only a two and a half minute song, which they played at break neck speed, and I'm not sure if the thing didn't come in, at about a minute and a half, followed closely by Milo, on his Les Paul copy, at a short head.

As the clouds rolled off the stage it became possible to see again, in a fashion.

Dev blinked as he looked around and saw Sean who sat at his drums in his fedora hat and an ultra tight black t-shirt, his flowing locks of blonde hair, which were like the mane of a majestic lion, had become prematurely grey.

No, in fact they where white. Not to put too fine a point on it; All of him was white. Everything in the worlde was white.

Dev heard the jingling guitar intro of Proud Mary and started to walk to the front of the stage.

Rick was also white. So was the Microphone. Dev spat some talcum powder out of his mouth as he sang  "Big wheel keeps on turning..." and soon he could start to see members of the audience emerging from under the clouds that rolled down the room.

They where still sat at their tables, which arced around the little stage and stretched back about thirty feet.

The people at the front where white, they were drinking brown beer in white glasses and only there eyes and lips were visible. It was like the black and white minstrel show but in reverse, kind of like a negative, if you know what I mean.

'God only knows what I looked like.' Thought Dev, as the band finished Proud Mary, and the audience erupted,

"They loved it." Shouted Rick across the stage.

✪

And later they played a medley of Down Down and Spinning Wheel Blues, that lasted for twenty-five minutes.

✪

16

Auld Lang Sine

"Hi Dev, it's your Uncle Ted from the Artists Booking Company. I've got a booking for you. Are you free on New Years Eve?"

"Well, we are Ted..." Who in fact was nobody's uncle,

"But we're not really ready for the road. It's gonna be a while before we are ready to perform."

"How about a one off show in Grimsby. It's far enough away, so no-one will know you, and I can put you out under a Nom de Plume."

"It's New Years Eve! You'll be able to play anything... and they will love it. As long as you do Auld Lang Sine, you'll be fine"

"Well, I'm not sure."

"Five hundred quid for one night. I can't say fairer than that." Ted stated fairly.

"Five hundred!"

"Yer, for one night. How'd you get on with your A levels?"

"Yer alright. Enough for Uni..."

"Good Lad, brains, and talent too... You'll go far lad."

"Groovie. Book it Dano. For five hundred quid, I'd drink Scunthorpe baths."

"Great. I will send the contracts through. When you gonna be ready for more work?"

"I'm not sure Ted. To be honest, it's not going so well. We've changed drummers three times already." Dev laughed.

"Well keep your Uncle Ted informed. Always got plenty of work for you, me lad."

It was already the beginning of September 1975, and the nights were drawing in. Winters breath is not far away thought Dev.

The band had been earning about a hundred to a hundred and fifty quid per night, as they had become quite a good little outfit, as Uncle Ted said, but changes in line up always have some effect, and sadly The Steaming Turds had run their course.

Sean had left to go south with his girlfriend, when she had been offered a really good job, which meant that they could get their own flat and everything; and Rick seemed to be struggling to avoid the white veil of marriage, that was looming over him, like a pale ghost, every time Dev saw him now-a-days.

And that only left Milo and Dev. And they weren't really sure what they wanted. Dev knew that he wanted to play original material and have a proper band, not just a covers outfit but it was hard to find musicians in Axholme who would agree to that, as it was just far too easy to stick some covers together and hit the Working Men's and Social Club scene and earn easy money.

Milo was soon tempted away by the evil dollar to work in another band, which left Dev on his own.

Anyway, slowly Dev began to knocked a few songs of his own together, and he manage to get a few other musicians interested, and after a few false starts with two guitarists and a number of different drummers, he had a band that was starting to look good.

They had managed to put a few tunes together, the keyboard player threw in a few numbers, and before he knew it they had two thirty-minute sets ready.

They were rehearsing at a local youth club and a part of the deal was that they would play for free, on one of their club nights.

And so they did and it went down really well. So the idea of the New Years gig was just fine.

Unfortunately, Dev had not counted on the Third Cod War.

✪

17

Play Delilah

They arrived at the venue on time and Jack helped to unload the gear. There had only been one hitch, the guitarist who was under his girlfriend's thumb, had not been keen to play on New Years Eve, as he had been invited to his girlfriend's parents for a party, and so Milo, who was now unexpectedly available again, had been drafted in at the last minute.

It was another small club, the Grimsby Fishermans and Marine Club, and it is fair to say that the people of Grimsby, had been hard hit by the Third Cod War, so the Christmas truce was something they were all looking to celebrate.

There was a small dance floor in front of the stage and the bar stretched down the left hand side. The square tables were in neat rows and L-shaped seating stretched around the back and up the right hand side.

"I'm sure that the same guy designs all of these places." Dev announced as he stood on the stage and looked the room over.

The Steward of the club greeted them warmly and immediately press drinks upon them saying,

"Anything you want tonight lads. It's all free!"

"Only one thing... About quarter to twelve... Slow it down and I will make some presentations and say a few words about the trawler men... Need to raise some cash for the fund... And then it's midnight... And it's Auld Lang Syne and off you go... Rock their bollocks off until One thirty... And then, we are all off home!"

"Magic!" He smiled a gapped tooth smile.

And so it was. They sailed through the first set, playing songs by the likes of Andy Fairweather-Low, The Eagles and 10CC and the crowd gave them a great response, as they settled down to a good night.

Dev went to the bar and immediately had more beer thrown at him by the landlord.

"Magic that lads. Here ya go, on the house. Magic."

An ugly looking brute, with a scar that ran sideways across his nose, came up to Dev and said;

"Play Delilah?"

"I'm sorry mate... it's not one that we know." Dev apologised to the man as he headed back to the dressing room.

There was a longer break than normal between sets, to allow for the bingo, which was followed by a few presentations, prizes, and announcements, along with a collection for the Trawler men and their families, to which the band all contributed a quid each, thus keeping the crowd on their side.

By the time they took to the stage for the second set, the whole venue was rolling. They were up and dancing and kicking it high and wide, as it is sometimes called, and it's fair to say that a good time was being had, by all.

When an audience is in that kind of mood, all you have to do is to keep them moving, so the band upped the tempo, and rolled out the classics.

Johnny B Goode, Rollover Beethoven, I Saw Her Standing There, Peggy Sue, etc,.

As they finished the set, a voice called out from the back of the room.

"Play Delilah!"

✪

Well, the last set was just as much fun, the crowd were by now completely inebriated, totally trollied, and extremely emotional, as they say.

A buffet of finger food had been prepared and served up to each table.

Now this is always a mistake, I remember once, dear reader, being at a formal function for a very select, middle aged, social elite and the hotel management had made the mistake of serving profiteroles.

Unfortunately, the cream within these delicacies had soured overnight, and the profiteroles were inedible.

Well, what does every public school boy do, when the food is inedible, but there is a plentiful supply of it?

This social elite, that I have mention, acted as a man, and took careful aim at their compare, and then nailed him to the wall.

After about two minutes of continuous barrage, all the available ammunition had been expended and the call for resupply was sent out.

The compare seizing his opportunity made good his escape and as he moved, and here I tell no lie, you could see his shape, like a chalk drawing of a corpse on the wall.

The elite were banned from the hotel.

Apparently it happens every year and they just move from one hotel to another.

Anyway here at the Grimsby Fishermans and Marine Club, they may not have been among the social elite but they knew how to enjoy themselves.

The missiles started to fly during Can't Get Enough and Dev was caught fair and square by what appeared to be a half eaten Scotch Egg.

During this outbreak the cry of "Play Delilah!" could be faintly heard coming from the back, and it is fair to say that Dev had his suspicions about the trajectory of said Scotch Egg.

Anyway the band took it all in good spirit and threw the missiles straight back and followed up with a swift rendition of Brown Sugar.

Well, midnight approached and the band led the count down to the New Year, the drummer keeping a constant roll going until they sang Auld Lang Sine and the streamers, poppers and balloons hit the air and then floor and a very pleasant time was had by all.

The band played on with a few more fast numbers before slowing it down for the Last Waltz. And that, as they say, was that.

The crowd dispersed slowly into the car park, and said their farewells and goodbyes whilst the usual fights took place. And the band started to strip down the gear.

The steward came up and thanked them and passed an envelope to Dev saying,

"There's a bit extra in there for you lads... for making it go with a swing. We'll have you back, anytime you like. Tell Ted I said so... No problem. Do you want some more beers before I close up the shop?"

"Magic." He concluded.

Well with these words the band and Jack headed for the bar, whilst Dev stood by the keyboards.

"Play Delilah!" Came the shout.

Somehow, the ugly looking brute with a scar that ran sideways across his nose had made it on to the stage.

"Play Delilah!" He repeated in a drunken slur, as he staggered towards Dev,

"I'm sorry mate were just packing up the gear now."

At this point he produced the longest fishing knife Dev had ever seen.

It looked as if it had gutted every single cod between Iceland and the German Bight, and the lights glimmered along its finely honed shiny blue edge, as he pointed it towards Dev.

"I saw the light... on the night... that I passed by her window..."

✪

18

Rock in Reykjavik

The stage was set for Bone Juice's biggest gig yet, an appearance at the massive festival, 'Rock in Reykjavik.'

The neo-gothic park of Hallgrimskirkj was lined by its water front setting. The festival, which celebrated the Icelandic love for the summer equinox, had an incredibly stylised look and feel, as if it had been designed by Salvador Dali and choreographed by Busby Berkeley, at some way-out hippy party, after they had partaken of some exceedingly strong elixir.

The result was that the whole setting was far more strange and artistic than any venue that Dev had ever been too.

It felt like he was been given an insider's glimpse of and eight-ring circus. A circus that was surrounded by a fairground attraction, assorted stalls, and populated by fire throwing acrobats, sword swallowing jugglers, and exotic dancers who cavorted daringly between the legs of the half naked stilt walking demons.

Dev was half blinded by the brilliant light of a camera's flash, as the photographer pranced around a quintet of supermodels, who posed dangerously, in their skimpy bikini's, whilst laid on a rotating, circular bed.

The stage was surrounded by a curved semi circular hood and massive banks of stage lights, PA speakers, and fold-back monitors lined its every edge.

The voice of Ziggi Ivorsson boomed massively as it excitedly informed the crowd of Bone Juice's imminent performance.

Dev hurriedly took his place in the middle of the huge stage as his heart pounded in his ears and his stomach lurched and spun, like the inside of a washing machine.

His keyboard stand stood to one side of the Hi-tech tower rack. The rack contained three TV sets, which were connected to a video machine, and a carousel slide projector. On the very top was the reel-to-reel tape recorder.

Lorenzo, a good friend from a near by village on the outskirts of Sheffield, had been drafted in to play saxophone and handle the backing vocals, smiled nervously at Dev, as he took his place on the far side of the tower rack.

The festival appearance was to be the first time that Dev had ever played to an outdoor audience, and as his stomach lurched again, he felt almost naked, stood there, completely exposed to the crowd.

It was already ten p.m. on this summers evening and the late evening light was still as bright as a north of England afternoon.

The sequencer on his Roland keyboard began to run through the pre-programmed introduction, and Dev coughed slightly as he leaned in to the microphone and with a dry mouth said simply,

"Hi... We are Bone Juice and you're about to get covered in it!"

By his foot lay the remote starter button, which his Doc Martens stamped upon with far more vigour than he felt, and at once the Tascam quarter-inch, reel-to-reel player jumped in to life.

As the beats to Strange Time kicked out of the massive speakers, the video player synchronised and broadcast a mixture of Match of the Day and Coronation Street, on to the giant screens in front of the expectant crowd.

His new Roland Juno 60 and 101 and his faithful Yamaha XP10 sat on the keyboard stand, along with a toy like Casio organ, that only had about three sounds that he used and he thought them absolutely amazing.

The slide show kicked off brightly, as it projected huge images from Forgemaster's Steelworks in Sheffield. It had been shot by a friend of his from the Film School and it showed scarlet stems of molten metal, sliding on automated rollers and snaking across the floor, whilst the manic faces of the workers, zoomed wildly in and out of focus.

At the end of the first song, there was a short, two second gap, inserted before the beats for Yvette began to pound through the PA speakers.

Both Dev and Lez thought that the response to Strange Time had been very weird. There had been no applause from the audience at all. Not one clap, just a kind of shocked, awed silence.

Dev sent a nervous glance to Lez and he returned it, hunching his shoulders as he started to stream his sax riff into the microphone, and they played the opening bars of Yvette, a dark haunting song about a sad young Goth girl Dev had known back in Sheffield, who had tragically committed suicide, alone in her bedsit, on the previous Christmas day.

The images of the old black and white film, "What Ever Happened To Baby Jane" starring Betty Davies, that he had recently watched, had been in his head when he had written the song. And now a large part of the film was on the video that was broadcasted across the Icelandic square.

There was no fancy editing. Dev had piled round to Lez's house one evening, and they had simply bounced the images from one machine to another, in a live recording mode and then dropped the images back and forth, to make the master video. Whilst all the time Lez's mother had fussed over them with cups of coffee and large slices of lemon cake.

The images produced on the film and projector slides was definitely a bit on the rough side, but that was also apart of the objective, after all, art is not meant to be perfect.

Anyway, Yvette is only a three-minute egg, as they say in show business, and here, it is the length of the song, not its toughness, that we are talking about, and after the reception of Strange Time, neither of them knew exactly what to expect.

The tape eased to a stop with a click, as it waited to be triggered for the next song, and Dev moved to the microphone to thank the crowd for listening, when the world went crazy.

It was the largest noise he had ever heard outside of the Hillsborough Stadium.

✪

Later...

"That was an amazing set," Said Ziggi,

"In Iceland, we have never seen anything like this. No drummer. No guitar player. How are you doing this?"

"I think you will be very big here... in Iceland... for a long time."

✪

Later still...

Elêna smiled, and flashed her eyes at Dev, the way that some girls do.

She looked as beautiful as she had sounded.

"You like, that I show you back to your hotel?" She enquired.

"Yer!"

✪

19

The Legend of Radio One

"You're listening to the John Peel show on wonderful... Radio One... And tonight... in session... we have three tracks from Sheffield finest Synth rockers... the mighty Bone Juice... and I don't mind telling you, that I'm looking forward to this one..."

It was one of those moments.

Ever since Dev could remember he had listened to the John Peel show, and he had dreamed... dreamed that maybe one day, just one day, he may get to hear his own track played on there.

But this was even better...

Dev and Lez had set off in Jack's van in the early morning, winding their way in and out of the rows of cycling steel workers and down the Attercliffe Road, before heading south on the M1 motorway.

They had arrived at the world famous Maida Vale Studio, Langham 1, with time to spare before the ten a.m. kickoff.

The legends that are Tony Wilson and Dale Dade had been waiting politely as they bussed the intercom to gain entrance to the white stucco regency building.

The studio was strangely grey with huge green velvet curtains, and it had cables hanging from hooks on pegboard screens. And all in all, it felt rather like the inside of a school, which had been crossbred with a submarine. You know, everything was that industrial grey green colour. It felt like being inside a model of an Airfix battleship – grey green.

The control room only had a sixteen channel desk, which was hooked up to the Langham eight track recording machine.

But this was no problem, as Bone Juice was not a traditional band and Dev would be over dubbing most of the tracks.

Slowly they loaded in the equipment and set up the stands in the Langham studio, whilst Dale showed them where to put things, and asked how they recorded the synths.

"We just stick them into an amp and then mic'ed the amp's up."

"Oh," He said seeming disappointed,

"Have you ever tried DI-ing?"

"No. What's that?" Asked Dev, and he could see Dale looking at Tony, through the corner of his eye, and he knew he had just made a major error.

"Well, it's when we take the output of the instrument... And put it straight into the desk... Without using amplification at all... And we treat the input signal directly in the control studio." Dale explained as patiently and as simply as he could.

"How do you do your drums?" He asked.

"Well, I have made up some rhythm tape loops, there pretty basic but effective." Smiled Dev nervously, hoping Dale thought the same.

"Ok then, that is where we need to start."

"Look... since there's only the two of you, the synths and the sax, why not do everything in the control room. One thing at a time?"

"Yer... that sounds great."

And that is what they did.

Dale took the rhythm loops and fed them into the desk, then he patched them, across four channels, and started EQ-ing them individually.

"What's that you're doing?" Dev asked him nervously.

"I'm using this new thing called a noise gate, it works just like it says. You open and close it, while honing in on a very specific, sound range, which I can adjust here."

"So... I'm separating out the Kick drum frequencies from your loop, and then we will 'big it up' with some compression and EQ."

"Then we will do the same with the snare drum,"

"And we can add them back in to the original tracks, creating a different mix, as a stereo pair... with effects, and bounce them across to tracks Seven and Eight."

Now Dev had heard of compression. It was the latest 'buzz word' in all of the recording magazines, like Sound on Sound, so he knew all about what it did, but he had never actually met anyone, who had used one or even seen one before.

The gates and compressors were rack mounted units, with what seemed like a hundred knobs on them, all black and white, with silver switches and in the top right hand corner, the word Drawmer was printed simply.

And so the day progressed and gradually the three tracks that they were due to record, started to take shape.

Dev was thrilled to be learning things he had never even read about, whilst playing his own music, in a world famous studio, and both he and Lez were enjoying themselves so much, that the time flew by, and before anyone was aware, it was eight o'clock in the evening and time to be heading home.

"Here are the mixes," Said Tony Wilson, handing Dev a cassette, and a seven inch, reel to reel copy of the masters.

"Have a listen on the way back home. Pinky, from John's office will call you in the next few days... and let you know when it's scheduled to be broadcast."

"I have to say that we have both really enjoyed the session. Very unusual, you're the first synth rockers we have had."

"All the other synth bands that have been in were much... less aggressive." He laughed,

"I love the way you use the rhythm loops and layer it all up with great melodies on top. I think John's going to like this one a lot."

'Wow!' thought Dev.

What could he say? This was a man who had worked with many of his heroes.

The Fall, Fad Gadget, John Foxx, David Bowie, Marc Bolan, Roxy Music, and Eno.

"Wow! Thanks man." He said softly.

He felt six-foot high, as he walked his five foot seven and a half, back to the van and woke Jack, who was sleeping across the front seats.

"Let's get some food." Said Lorenzo,

"I'm starvin'."

They headed into Meida Vale and the only place that they could find open was a small quaint Jewish café, which sat next to some traffic lights, on the corner of the road.

They parked up and entered sitting at a table on the side of the room and looked at the menu, it really was a small café, with a small choice, and they all decided to have the only thing on the menu that they all knew.

Chicken soup.

Now Lez had been born and bred in a small village, just outside of Sheffield and with the exception of the occasional trips to Scarborough and back, and to the family villa in the Italian hills, he had rarely been any further than the three miles to Sheffield, and this was his first trip to London. He had been brought up with his Italian mother and father and eight brothers and sisters.

The food arrived and they were hastily tucking in to it, when Lez caused them all to breakout, in a joyous almost hysterical laughter. He took one look at his bowl, as he spooned out a piece of carrot and said.

"Chicken so-up!"

"Chicken so-up!"

"Never be-en chicken so-up!"

✪

20

Hanging on the Telephone

The phone was ringing and Dev rolled over and let it. It was far too early.

'I'm in the music industry. Don't ring me until eleven... man!' He thought, as he pulled the duvet up into a bunch and cuddled it tightly, and he drove his head back into the pillow and dozed off again.

The phone continued to ring, again, and again.

Slowly he peeled his tongue off the top of his mouth, opened his eyes, and picked up the handset.

"Yer."

"Dev, Dev, Dev, Dev... Dev." Said the soft voice of Tony K,

"I've been ringing you all morning."

"Yer, sorry man... Had a late one mate... We didn't get back from London until three-ish."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I hope it went well... Anyway here is the news... The single is going ballistic. Were up to about twenty thousand, and we reckon it will hit both the National Music Week and the Indie charts this weekend."

"Have you thought about doing an album yet?"

"An Album?" Dev repeated. Now fully awake.

An album was every bands dream but most of them never got past the second single.

"Yep, I reckon we would sell twenty to thirty thousand units. That would gross you maybe forty grand man!"

"How Much?"

"Fuck!" Dev said.

"Yes... and if you tour as well, we could maybe do as many as fifty thousand units, plus..."

"Tour. How would we do that?"

"Ok mate, why don't you come up later, and we can have a curry and beer, and talk it through?"

"Yer, OK."

"I will see you at the station about six"

"Yer. Groovie."

✪

21

Strike While the Iron is Hot

They where sat in the same Indian restaurant that they had been to on the first night that they had met, The Taj Mahal it was called, and with them was Jenny, Tony's wife and Paul the Red Rhino Records label manager. Dev was consuming his chicken jalfrezi with gusto, when Tony commenced the meeting.

"Ok young Dev, this is what I think we should be looking to do."

"The next step for Bone Juice is another single, followed closely by an album... Then, over the period of the next six months, by two more singles, both from the album to give it legs."

"We also need to get you out on tour, which should coincide with the Album and a single release, and sort out the press and radio promotion for you."

"Well that would be great!" Laughed Dev wondering how the fuck he could make all that happen.

"Don't worry about making it all happen, this is what we do."

"We have contacts with all these people, and I'm sure that we can help you. Obviously, it all cost money... But here are some options for you."

"We can help you fund this but... obviously we would need to get our money back... And after all, we all need to make a shilling..."

"Or you can fund it yourself and we can put everything in place for you with Paul here, acting as your label manager."

"Which one do you think you would prefer?"

"I'm not sure... How do they work?"

"Well... If you fund things yourself, you will make a lot more money, in the long term, and if you really believe in yourself, then that is the best way to go, because you will own everything... And you will retain artistic control over your own destiny. But you will need to find the money. After all it's your business..."

"If you want us to fund this for you, then we will be happy to do so." Tony continued speaking whilst sampling his lager,

"We will supply the back up for you, as an Artist, to develop, without the stress of the day to day handling of the manufacture, printing, having to deal with the agents, the press and the radio... and hassles... Like the copyright details etc. You know, just let you get on with making the music."

"You just concentrate on the writing, the recording, the gigging and enjoying the journey."

"Now obviously, we will need to recoup our investment, but we are confident, that we can do that with you."

"What does recoup mean?" Dev asked him sheepishly.

"Well... recoupment is the industry term for getting our money back." Tony laughed gently,

"It's like we are a bank... and we give you an overdraft, and that money is spent by us, on your projects, obviously with your approval, and then, when the sales or income starts to arrive, we need to recoup our investment. To pay off the overdraft..."

"Anything remaining is the profit, and we divide that equally between us. It's what the industry calls, a Fifty-Fifty deal."

"You will need to get the business side of things sorted out though. Banks, accountants etc., etc.," Tony concluded as the waiter delivered more dishes and several naan breads.

"Can I think about it or do you need to know now?"

"Well obviously you can take as much time as you need Dev... to think things through... but if you want to be successful, you will need to move quickly."

"Strike while the iron is hot!"

"Anyway this is for you." He said and passed over a white envelope.

Dev looked at the people around the table and then opened the envelope. Inside there was a cheque, made payable to Thomas Deveroux, for the sum of Three thousand and thirty five pounds and eight pence.

"Wow!" He exclaimed.

"That's your royalties from the first eight thousand sales of Junior. There will be more in a couple of months." Tony grinned.

"How much will I get for an album?" Dev asked excitedly.

"Well, if it sells like the single... And we expect it to do a lot better, and to build up over the year, then..."

"Well put it this way. Six thousand sales would give you about three times that... And with all the promo... We would expect the album to sell four or five times more than the single, so..."

"Fuck, that's Forty five and a half grand!" Dev finished for him.

The whole table looked at Dev and laughed.

"Yer, I was always good at the maths." He laughed too.

✪

22

Hey, Mr. Bank Manager

The day had come for Dev to make an appointment to see the Bank Manager.

He had made his decision, he filled out his application form for the Enterprise Allowance Program, using a pen that he had borrowed from Sam, the beautiful blonde who still lived in the flat upstairs, and who continued to refuse to sleep with him.

He was going to start his own business. Native, a record label, whose sole function, was to be a vehicle, to release the Bone Juice project.

The Enterprise Allowance Program was a scheme that the government had set up to encourage the unemployed to become entrepreneurs, and would allow them too have a go at being entrepreneurial, instead of being content to simply claim the dole. The fact, that substantially reduced the unemployment figures, had not slipped the media's attention.

In reality, it meant that Dev could operate as a creative artist and receive some limited financial support, from the government, without having the hassle of having to sign-on for a whole year.

In order to activate this scheme, Dev had to have a business plan, a bank account, in that business name, and be able to prove that he could access investment funds of one thousand pounds for this new business.

Now, the Bank Manager and Dev had never been in the same club, as it where.

There were a number of chaps that he knew from school, who had become career types, and who would later go on to be called Yuppies, but to be fair, most of the one's that he knew, who where in banking, where only at the Trainee Yuppie level, and in all honesty they had never been what you would call 'real friends.'

No, not even pals really, and being totally honest with you, it was only Dev's small skill at football, and rugby that had actually stopped Dev from getting the weekly beating, that was dished out to most of the schools other weeds.

It so happened that, through a girl that Dev knew, who worked as a tiller on the counter of the bank, he was aware that behind his back, everyone in the bank called the manager Herr Flick, after a fictitious TV comedy Nazi, because he always wore a full-length, black leather coat, had small round spectacles, and was known to be a mean and somewhat vindictive man.

So it was that Dev found himself being treated nicely by a secretary who apologised sweetly to him with a smile, after he had been kept waiting for twenty minutes.

Eventually, Dev was sat in front of the bank manager's impressively large desk.

The Bank Manager was plainly going through the motions.

He slowly studied Dev through those steel rimmed, round spectacles, with a squint and a dislike, which was distinctly apparent.

Then he slowly studied Dev's account, which was standing at an impressive total of Three pounds Forty-five pence, and which had not been above the Ten-pound mark since 1979, when a deceased aunt had left him the massive amount of Eighty-six pounds, after solicitor's fees.

The Bank Manager had obviously already prejudged the situation, when he came to the part were Dev had to show 'means', that he could in fact access the one thousand pounds needed for the scheme to operate.

"I'm afraid that in this case, we will not be able to lend you the money... Or to extend to you an overdraft facility." He said with a sickly smile, and closed the folder, as he re-screwed the top on to his red Parker pen, and placed it delicately on top of the folder.

He watched for Dev's reaction closely, as if thinking, that this would make a good anecdote at tonight's meeting of the Freemasons, as he took a cigarette from his packet of Embassy's and lit one slowly with his Ronson lighter, breathing in deeply before exhaling a grey cloud in Dev's direction.

"Oh, that's OK," Dev nodded, understanding, his position completely,

"I quite understand..."

"Completely."

"However, I would like to take this opportunity to make a small deposit, if I may." Dev continued, handing him the envelope with the Red Rhino cheque inside.

"You see I've kind of got the ball rolling already." He smiled.

The Bank Manager took a long look at the cheque, and then at Dev... And then a second look at the cheque, and a third, and then back again, to where Dev sat casually raking his dark brown hair with his fingers.

The Bank Manager's eyes were wide and his jaw was slack, and it almost seemed as if a sliver of saliva ran from his mouth, but that may have been Dev's imagination.

The Bank Manager said nothing for a good minute and a half, which anyone who has ever recorded a three-minute single will tell you, is a very long time.

✪

23

Making The Album

As he made his way back along the High Street, Dev worked out that he had two tracks already recorded, the single, Junior and its B-side, and three more tracks, that had been recorded at the Peel Session.

So how many tracks do I need? He thought to himself. He turned around, and walked back down the hill towards the HMV, which sat firmly on the left hand side of The Moor, and he took a look at the albums of bands that he liked.

'Yer, they are all about forty minutes long,' He continued talking to himself,

'So that means twelve songs... maybe eleven.'

'Ok, lets call it twelve,' He decided.

'So I need to record seven new songs. Well that's no problem. I had a dozen songs ready to go.' He smiled at the girl, who everyone was in love with, and who worked on the checkout desk.

Steadily he walked back up the hill towards the City Hall and then headed down through the city and along to The Wicker, the shady part of the city, which is near the river, and Wards Brewery.

He breathed in deeply and he could almost taste the malt that hangs on the air in this part of the city, and he watched as 'the head,' large bits of white froth, floated past, under the bridge and out to the east coast and the wild northern sea.

At the back of The Wicker is a row of semi-derelict warehouses, a large warren of rooms of all sizes, that had once been the workshops of the 'Little Misters,' the legendary tradesmen of Sheffield, who made the bone handles for the knifes that had made the city world famous.

Inside one of these warren-like rooms, was a small recording studio called Vibrasound.

Vibrasound was the hottest studio in Sheffield at the moment, and Stuart, the owner, had just purchased a new Roland drum computer, which was the latest way of making drum patterns. The studio also had several rats but alas no toilet.

"Hey Stu, it's Dev. Can I talk to you for a few minutes?"

"Yer mate. Come on in." He replied and buzzed the buzzer.

The wooden stairs creaked as Dev made his way up and then down, and a long the corridor, passed the window, from which everyone took a piss, and up to the metal clad door of Vibrasound.

There was a band working with Stuart in the small intimate studio but he said,

"OK lads, let's take a lunch break, Yer? Give me thirty minutes? Are you going to the shop? Can you bring me a bap?"

And with those details completed Dev sat down with him behind his new computer.

"Tell me all about this," Dev said.

"I've read about it in Future Music but how does it really work?"

"Well..." Said Stuart taking a long, slow draw, on his cigarette.

"Essentially it's a rhythm box... but you can program some of the basic drum stuff... Here in this section."

"To do it well you need a few days of programming... But you could easily get a good stereo pair out of it.'

"Could we layer the tracks up and then bounce then all down to four tracks. A stereo pair, keeping the kick and snare on separate tracks, for extra mixing scope?" Dev asked as he leaned forward to get a closer look at the computer.

Stuart looked surprised, as he blew a ring of smoke out, and up towards the ceiling.

"Who's been teaching you?" He asked with a smile as he drew in again, on his cigarette.

"I kind of picked some stuff up when we went down to the BBC at Maida Vale."

They both smiled knowing that this was all part of the game.

"Well yes. It's quite easy to work once you know what your doing." Stuart stated simply.

"Just takes time... is all."

"There only about six studios in the country using them right now... But I reckon this computer recording is going to catch on."

They spent half an hour talking about the wherefore's and how-to's, and then the band returned, and they hung around looking sulky, and calling Dev 'Pal', like all Sheffield lads do, when they don't know or don't like someone.

Stuart said to the band "I'll be five, yeah."

And walked Dev back down the stairs. As they talked about the money and he said,

"Well seven tracks... That is at least seven days and we will have to program the drums but yeah... I would love to do it."

"You know our rates are ten pounds per hour now... but if you book seven days I will do it at sixty five a day. What do you reckon?"

"That's Four hundred and fifty five quid, yer?"

"Yer... Call it four hundred and fifty."

"Great! Here's a hundred quid deposit." Dev said and passed the money over.

"No VAT!" Stuart smiled and touched his nose.

✪

24

Searching for an Orchestration.

Of course like all art, recording is a creative process, and no matter what rules you apply to it, some how it always manages to not conform to the given timetable. It was now day ten, and Dev found himself over budget by two hundred quid and more.

The drum tracks were sounding great but the truth is, that Dev knew he was no drummer, so Stuart, who had been a drummer, had spent three days helping him building up the patterns, and an old mate of Dev's called Simon, had dropped in to help build up the string parts.

Lez had played the saxophone and another old mate, Smooth Johnny Lee, had dropped some fine bits of bass down.

Everything was sounding right. It was a strong, heavy sound, and Dev was a happy man and just said,

"We do it... Until it's finished."

The vocals had come next, and Dev had managed to do all seven tracks in a single day, with Lez handling the backing vocals, and now they where on to the mixing.

However, because they had been using layered sounds, and bouncing the tracks together as they went, they had really been mixing the different sections, like the drums and the strings, on the go, and so the final mixing stage, had become relatively easy and more of a balancing act than a total mix.

And whilst they had gone way past the initial budget, it was really starting to look like they where making a great album, and so Dev was not too unhappy with the total cost of eight hundred pounds.

The last track had been finished after a mammoth mixing session, which had gone on way into the early morning of the August bank holiday weekend, with the five of them crammed into that tiny little smoke filled studio, but at three of the clock, anti meridian, Dev was sat in a taxi and heading back to Fulwood, with a cassette in his pocket and a quarter inch master tape on his lap.

He was so excited, that when he got home, he just made a huge pot of coffee and a large pile of buttered toast, and sat crossed legged, like a small school boy, on the duvet, as he listened to the cassette tape over, and over, and over again, until the morning sun, began to cast its late summer, pale yellow, morning light, across the dingy single bedsit room.

"Thanks for the disco, Dev!" Said Sam the beautiful blonde, who lived upstairs and still wouldn't sleep with him, as she banged on his door, the next morning.

He watched her as she sashayed her way down the short path, heading off to enjoy the bank holiday weekend, with her flash bastard of a boyfriend, in his MG Midget convertible.

It was 8 am, 30 August 1980.

✪

25

Laurel

The artwork for the album had been formulated in Dev's head now for quite a while. It was definitely an ongoing job. It was nowhere near finished. He knew what he wanted but he still hadn't started the layout yet. He knew that he needed some help.

He sat nursing a pint of Johns in the Ranmoor Inn, and the more he thought about it, the more he realised the urgency, the fact that he would need to have it finalised, and ready, within the next few days. The more he knew that he needed some help.

Before he reached the end of the pint, he had come to the conclusion, that he had no option but to contact Laurel.

He accepted that he had known this all along but was just putting off the inevitable.

He knew this was going to be difficult, if not down right dangerous and he continued to hesitate for quite a while before he reluctantly walked to the payphone, and made the call.

As an ex girlfriend, Laurel was placed fairly highly, on the People who hate me list, that was indelibly imprinted upon Dev's consciousness.

The funny thing was that Dev had always known about the list, he was subconsciously aware that it had always been there.

People had never liked him. As the new boy in seven different schools, he had faced that instant dislike time and time again.

"The new kid in town always has a rough ride." One of his aunts had told him. Yet some how that didn't seem to make it any better.

And strangely, the more of a conscious effort he made to deal with the problems that haunted his life, the more inevitably he seemed to make things worse, and as a result, the list continued to grow, year on year.

Laurel had been a recent addition to the list. The problem was that their relationship had ended badly. And it was all Dev's fault.

'If only I could learn to think with my brain, and not my dick.' The thought ran through his head, as he held the phone in his hand and placed his finger in the dial.

Laurel had a dangerous temper, and she would spit, kick, and bite, whilst scratching your eyes out.

However, she was truly a great artist, who had a good eye for graphics, and image in particular. She was currently in her second year and studying at the local art college.

"Hey Mrs Templeton...Is Laurel available please?" He asked gently while he held his breath.

"Yes... Just a moment please. Can I ask who is calling?" She enquired.

" Yer... It's Dev..." He answered nervously.

"OH!"

The phone sounded as if it had been slammed on to a hard surface and Dev realised that he was meant to hear the conversation that followed.

"... Can't believe the cheek of some people... Are you sure?"

"I can tell him you have gone away for the summer if you like..."

"Hey Laurel... You good?" Dev asked her softly.

" I wonder if you would do me a really big favour..."

It was very much a one-way conversation, and Dev felt a bit like he was talking to a supercilious cat.

A cat that has decided that she may as well move to the nice house across the road. The red one with the little girl, who always stroked her so gently, because, well lets face it, trying to live on a diet of cheese and crisps was becoming simply unbearable.

The conversation cost him dear, and he had to make a sincere apology to both Laurel, and to her mother, before Laurel would agree to meet with him. He had also promised to pay her Fifty quid for the design work.

Fortunately the meeting had gone well and with Laurel's help and that of her contacts, the two of them had managed to slip into one of the photography rooms at the art college one afternoon and she had shot some great black and white photos of him, that she said would work well with the typeface that he wanted.

The typesetting for the label had taken another day, and he wasn't sure that it was totally correct in its detail but he felt confident,

"I figure that, if it has worked for Ultravox, then it should work for Bone Juice too." He told Laurel.

And on a wet Thursday evening, they had completed the artwork together.

And now they sat on an old deckchair in Dev's apartment, eating fish and chips from the newspaper, and drinking a bottle of Liebfraumilch.

Dev had forgotten that he didn't own a corkscrew. So he had had to use a knife.

He had rammed the cork down in to the bottleneck, and then by carefully holding the cork back with the knife, he poured them a drink, using the one mug, that they took turns in sharing.

"When the album sells I will by a real corkscrew... and some glasses." Dev announced as he passed Laurel the mug.

Laurel smiled for the first time in a month as she leaned forward and kissed him.

✪

Late the next afternoon Dev found that once again, he was sitting on the train to York.

He had with him the quarter inch master tape, a cassette duplicate of the master, the album sleeve layout, both front and back, and the inner sleeve jacket layout, which he knew would be an additional expense but he felt sure, that it would be worthwhile.

And so on the Friday evening he walked from the train station to the Red Rhino shop and was greeted by Mark as he entered and the old fashioned bell on the door tingled.

"Love the new haircut Dev!" Mark grinned.

Tony and Paul where with him in a minute and soon they where sat in the back of the warehouse as they listened to the cassette.

He had never ever been so nervous in his whole life, he decided. Not even when the headmaster of his boys school had him in his office, again, for another misdemeanour.

'This has to be the worst feeling in the world,' Thought Dev,

' Just sitting and playing your own music to someone... who's opinion is so crucial to your future... for the very first time. And waiting for their verdict.'

'I know it's crazy, I mean, I have just spent two weeks listening to it, on massive speakers, just inches from my nose but now, some how, it just sounds completely different.'

The voice in his head screamed as he watched them like a poker player, searching for the meanest tell, whilst they in turn, exchanged their own strange looks from the corner of their eyes.

It cheered him though that he could see that Mark was dancing along to the music in the shop and that Jake, the punk, was kicking boxes in time to the beat.

'It must be... OK.' He hoped.

Only a handful of people had heard the tracks. The five of them in the studio, Laura the ex-ex, as she now was, and obviously the involuntary listener from upstairs, Sam.

'Listening to your own music, in front of other people, for the first time, really, really is a very strange thing to do. It just sounds totally wrong. The vocals are crap and the songs are crap, in fact, it all sound so crap.'

His naked voice screamed between his ears at the total insanity of it all.

"That is amazing!" Tony stated.

"Yes, really brilliant!" said Paul.

✪

26

On the Road Again

Bone Juice headed up the M1 motorway to Leeds Polytechnic in the battered blue transit. Jack was driving and Lez and Dev sat in the front with the gear carefully packed into the back.

The two of them had put in a week of solid rehearsal, and Dev and Laura had made some new slides for the projection show and a new videotape for the TV, which featured parts of episodes of Dr Who and Mork and Mindy amongst others.

The plan was to use the Leeds gig as a warm up, before they headed out on tour with Orchestral Manoeuvres and the Human League.

Yvette had been released as a single the week before, and it was already starting to pick up some regional airplay, whilst John Peel had played it twice already. Gary Crowley at Radio London was also a big fan, and bands like the Three Johns had asked if Bone Juice would like to tour with them too.

The Leeds gig was a great success. They had played to six people including Jack. And afterwards, as they were packing away the equipment, they where approached by two guys who had been in the audience.

Dev had noticed them particularly and to be fair it would have been hard not to, as they both were wearing heavy make-up but one, who introduced himself as Mark looked particularly striking. He wore tight leather trousers and a military style leather hat and draped a grey trench coat over his ultra thin body.

"We run a night at the Roxy club, on Calls Lane, every last Thursday of the month. Do you want to play for us? We will be playing too."

"Yer, that sounds cool. What's your band called?"

"Oh, we are called Soft Cell and we do a similar type of music to you... but with a more pop, dance, disco feel."

"Here is our number. Call me, and we will set it up... Loved the gig."

The next gig was at Sheffield's famous rock venue, The Limit.

This was a hometown gig and Dev had planned to use the night as the launch night for the Album.

Martin Lilleker, the legendary music journalist, who worked for the local paper, had been kind enough to write a brilliant review of the album in his weekly column, and had gone on to interview Bone Juice for his Sheffield fanzine, Office Box.

As usual, The Limit was rammed with every face from the scene. Laurel was there with five or six of her college friends and both Stuart and Simon from the Studio had turn out, as had various members of Pulp, Cabaret Voltaire, ABC, Clock DVA, They Must Be Russians and 2.3, they had all turned up to lend their support.

For those of you have never been to The Limit, let me draw you a picture. The Limit is the archetypal rock venue. It is so ingrained in the history of Sheffield, and that of the industry, that absolutely every touring band, that has ever played on the small venue circuit, within this great kingdom, has played there, every genre from metal to punk, and bands as diverse as Cabaret Voltaire and Paul Young.

The room is in reality a basement, with a stage down one side and the bar down another. The whole club is permeated with the stench of cigarettes, urine, sweat, dope, and stale beer.

The carpet is a deep ash colour, with shades of tarmac here and there, and it is made from chewing gum with the tab ends of cigarettes carefully interwoven in a herringbone pattern. It has never been hoovered but legend has it, that twice a year, it is sanded and raked, to remove the various pieces of glass and metal that collect there.

This whole ambience is completed with the traditional, dust laden, disco ball accompanied, on percussion as it where, by its best friend, the UV light, which cast a beauteous sheen on the whole place and makes all and sundry look like they have stunningly brilliant white teeth, and incurable dandruff.

Jack had arranged for them to borrow a dry ice machine from a local turn that he knew, and had spent an hour getting the gismo ready. Jack, it turned out, wasn't sure of the difference between a Dry ice and a Smoke machine, and had never used either before. He also worked on the rule that plenty is more than enough, and if one bottle had worked in the local working mans clubs, then two bottles of fluid should be perfect for the Limit.

Smoke started to stream across the stage, like steam oozing from an engine and as the cloud grew it started to billow upwards and across the room, like a northern fog obscuring the sunlight. Soon it was seeping off the stage and out across the dance floor engulfing everyone between there and the bar.

The strobe lighting flashed on a very slow pulse as Bone Juice stumbled across the stage, tripping over amplifiers and banging into microphone stands, totally encased in a cloud of smoke.

Eventually Dev found his way to the mic stand and coughing several times, spat the taste of artificial smoke from his mouth and bravely said,

"Hello. We are Bone Juice and this is Yvette."

As he bent his head down to his synthesiser and searched for the right note.

The Limit was the biggest crowd they had ever played to in Sheffield, more than fifty people where there, and every single one was a mate, or mate of a mate's mate, and the night progressed as the partisan crowd pogo-ed the night away.

✪

Later, after the usual argument with Laura, Dev spent a happy night with two girls that he kind of knew, dancing to Being Boiled by The Human League.

Somewhere during the debauchery he recalled a face popping up, it was surrounded by a blonde perm and wore bright red glasses.

Ryan Trent said,

"Great show Dev, why not come on down and do another interview?"

"Yer," Dev replied.

It was one of those nights that went down in the rock history of Sheffield. Anyone you meet nowadays says they were there. Legends were born. And they whiled away the night, until the early hours, when the bouncers through then out of the back doors in a drunken pile.

✪

27

Have You Found It Yet?

The phone was ringing again. It was early afternoon but Dev had been up for hours, well at least two hours anyway. A voice, with a strong Yorkshire accent asked,

"Have you found it yet?"

"Sorry?" He queried.

"Have you found it yet?"

"I'm... Sorry?" He hesitated as he replied.

"Yer orchestration?"

"Is that you Lez?" He asked,

But they had already hung up.

It was just one of the weird things that were starting to happen.

Like people he had never seen before in his life saying "Hello," and the bus conductor who claimed,

"I went to junior school with you."

A statement that Dev just knew could not possibly be true, unless the bus conductor had lived, as a child, in Canada or possibly Seattle in the USA.

Bone Juice had now been in the local papers and on Steel City Radio again with Ryan Trent.

An absolute replay of the initial interview but with Jarvis Cocker from Pulp this time, so it was a lot more fun.

They had met outside the Victorian Public toilets at the City Hall, and walked across town to the Radio station from there. They had laughed all the way. Jarvis had just recorded his second Peel session and had a big piece in the NME.

He was also working with Red Rhino, and they felt like comrades.

"The world is ours, and we are going to take it." Said Dev,

"Up The Indie Revolution!"

After the show they headed to the Hallamshire Hotel on West Street for some refreshments, arriving in the Radio Hallam taxi. As they walked into the bar there was a stage silence, almost like the Malamute saloon, where the music stops and chairs halt in mid-air, as they sail across the room.

Of course it only lasted a second but they both smiled,

"Weird!"

✪

28

Vinyl Records

It was raining again as the telephone rang and Dev slipped his arm from under the duvet and pulled the phone towards himself.

"Hello." He croaked.

It had been a big night in the Steel City and he hadn't got in until very early, about three thirty-ish.

"Dev. How are you this fine morning?"

"What time is it?" He asked.

"About eleven." Tony replied.

"Urgh!" He replied.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. I was just saying... urgh."

There was a silence at the other end of the line, and after a moment Tony continued,

"I've got some great news for you. The albums are here!"

"I'm sending down some for you via Securicor, and you will have them by tomorrow."

"Yeah! Man... that's great." Dev said now fully awake,

"What do they look like?"

"Well, to be honest, they look absolutely brilliant."

"They sound great too." He held the phone close to the speakers on his desk, where Dev could hear Strange Time playing and he continued,

"And the pre-orders... It's selling like hot cakes..."

"If you're not careful young Dev, you may have a hit on your hands!"

"Securicor will deliver them before one p.m. tomorrow afternoon, so make sure you are in."

"And if I don't see you before, I will see you on Saturday, at York University."

"Yeah."

"Yer, see you then. Great stuff."

✪

And so it occurred. The very next morning the doorbell rang and out of the window Dev could see the blue van that was parked in the street, a few doors down.

The Securicor man held a big box balanced on his knee and a carbonated form in his mouth. He handed Dev the form and said.

"Delivery for a Mr Bone Juice. Sign here."

Dev took the heavy box into his room and carefully ran the bread knife down the edges and across the centre strip of parcel tape.

The box sprang open and he felt like all his Christmas's had come at once.

Inside where four more, thinner boxes and he struggled a bit to get one of them out, as they where so tightly packed but after a mighty effort, and what seemed like an eternity, eventually one box wiggled free.

It had a small piece of tape on the side. Dev laid it on the floor and gently ran the bread knife along the box's lip.

The box opened like a huge book and inside sat the UV varnished albums. They were neatly stacked in a uniformed direction. Front up and facing. And they smelled so wonderful.

That special waft of fresh vinyl and printers ink filled the whole room as Dev took the top album out of the box and turned it over and over in his hands, being extra careful not to get his finger prints on to the UV finish of the sleeve, and he looked in awe and surprise, at the pictures of himself, as he read the liner notes.

Then with extra care, he slipped the inner paper sleeve, out of the card jacket, and then with one finger on the label, he slowly teased the vinyl from its specially printed, paper inner wrapper.

'Slowly, like undressing a bride,' As the old men had always said.

The vinyl shone in the morning sun as it streaked through the curtainless window, black and blue, and the grooves where clean, deep, and untrammelled.

Dev looked at the disc for a minute and more... just gazing at its shear beauty, and drinking in the aroma.

He knelt still and statuesque in the middle of the room, in his boxer shorts and with only a t-shirt on, totally unable to move or speak.

He was so happy that he started to cry.

It was Tuesday 07th October 1980.

✪

Epilogue

The dirty windows of his one room apartment let in a grey light that spilled across the mattress, which lay on the wooden floorboards, and to his dismay, Dev found that his socks were still soaking from all the rain the night before.

His inspired idea, a total brain wave for someone who at the time was pickled to the gills, of carefully arranging the socks, over the side of the chair, and placing said chair in front of the gas fire, had in reality, totally failed to dry them sufficiently, or in Dev's opinion, at all.

He resumed his position on the mattress and listed intently to Gary Newman, and he was just layering a pile of toast with thick chunks of cold butter when the phone rang.

It rang impatiently, like only a telephone can.

Answer Me! Answer Me! What are you playing at? Answer Me! It said.

Ignoring it, he walked into the kitchen cubbyhole and placed his damp socks under the still warm grill,

'What a great idea' he though,

'Totally utilising the resultant heat residue to dry the socks. Brilliant.'

"Two birds with one stone. Old Foxy the physic's Master would be proud of me," He said to himself as he walked back to attend to the impatient phone.

"Yer... Yer, I'm coming!" He declared as he bit into another mouthful of toast, and carried his coffee cup over from the kitchen unit, he picked up the phone as he resumed his seat upon the duvet.

"Oh Hi," Said a very educated voice as Dev answered the phone at last,

"I didn't think anyone was available..."

"Is that...Del?" And before Dev could answer the voice continued,

"I'm Sebastian Bloode-Temple from the NME... And I really need to talk with you."

The persistent voice spoke for several more minutes without stopping for a single pause. Dev waited for its owner to take a breath, and when he did... Before Dev could say a word, the voice set off again, rather like a greyhound that was chasing a hare.

''John was telling me all about you and then... well the very next day your album arrived on the editorial desk... for review I presume.'

"Now, I don't normally review unknown bands but ..."

"Well 'John' had said you were well worth the time, so I popped it on the pile."

"Anyway... to cut a long story short, the one of the girls in the office was playing the album when I came back from lunch... and I have to say... She did seem to quite like it."

"Are you ever in London?"

"No. I live in Sheffield." Dev managed to get a few words in.

"Who's this John anyway?" He added quickly, just in time as it happens, and then he took another bite of toast.

"Oh... I think you should come to London. It may be quite interesting to talk with you..."

"'John', Why John Peel of course..."

He continued, talking straight over Dev.

"Oh... Do say you will come down, because I really can't be... Er... I really am not inclined... I mean, time... I don't really have the time, editorial pressure you know. No I'm afraid that travelling is not an option. Where are you anyway?"

"It's North isn't it. Somewhere quite gritty... I'm sure."

"I mean, look ... How about Monday..."

"I never have anything to do on a Monday..."

"And then we can get a piece into next weeks paper."

"Yes, that works, and I'm free on Monday afternoon. We can get a beer. Do let me know what time is good for you, and we can meet at The Victoria in Mornington Place."

"Yes, that does work. Do let me know."

And the phone line went "Der..."

Dev could smell something.

I don't mean that he thought that the conversation seemed dodgy or that he thought that Sebastian Bloode-Temple himself, smelt like a wrong un' as they say in the gritty north... But Dev could definitely smell something... Something he could quite put his finger on.

'But hey, the apartment is a damp and smelly place anyway,' He thought and took another bite at the toast.

And before he could give it any further thought, the phone decided to ring again.

"Dev, Dev, Dev, Dev, Dev..." The slightly hesitant voice of Tony K floated down the line.

"How the hell are you?"

"Groovie man, how are you?"

"Truly excellent. Thank you for asking. I need to talk to you about the album and the next single. We have some great orders shipping out... and I think there is some good action on the single."

"Peel has been playing it a lot, and Gary Crowley at London has picked it up too."

"If you're not careful young Dev... You could really have a hit on your hands." He laughed.

"Oh Shit!" Dev said and slammed the phone down.

The room was filling up with smoke and flames were jumping out of the grill and dancing around the grease-stained curtain that covered the kitchen cubbyhole.

His socks were now more than dry.

Unfortunately they didn't stay that way. The Fire Officer had carefully saturated them with water, as he doused the fire, which had gutted the front room of the shabby Victorian house.

It was 14th October 1980.

✪

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction, which takes place in a fantasy worlde. Many of the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or historical but they are used in a truly fictitious manner. Any resemblance to other names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents or actual persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

✪

The Song Title Game

So I named a chapter, and then I realised that the chapter title I had chosen was in fact the name of a very famous song, and I would have to change it. But it made me smile when I realised it.

Then I started to add some more song names, and band names, as chapter titles, and into the story in general. I just couldn't help it. It became a game, to see if I could add more song titles or artist names to the books, without changing the story or anybody noticing.

And finally, I though I would let you in on the idea.

So, on the website is a list of the song titles and the artists that are mentioned in the book so far.

Did you manage to find them all?

If you do find one that I didn't add to the list, then please drop me a line at the website:

http://www.5thworlde.com

I do know there are lots of 'One Word' Artist and Son names but I have tended not included them in the game, as then it would be simply impossible to write absolutely anything at all.

✪

Kevin Donoghue

Kevin is known as a music industry personality, having worked since his school days as a musician. He moved on to become a studio engineer, record producer; records label owner, radio plugger, distribution manager and artist manager.

He has also been a senior lecturer, course leader, visiting lecturer, keynote speaker, and an adviser to Edexel, the International renowned British Education and Examination Board, in Music Technology and Music Business.

He has also been an invigilator for the Royal Schools of Music.

He became a storyteller by accident.

More books can be found at:

www.5thworlde.com

A full biography can be found at;

www.kevindonoghue.com

✪

More by the Author

The following books by the author are also available.

From The Devil We Came

Part 1 of the 5Th Worlde series

The Adventures of Robyn Nudd

Part 1 ~ The Dark Book series

A companion to the 5th Worlde

Svengali

Part 1 ~ Junior

Svengali series

Coming Summer 2016

The Rise of Germania

Part 2 ~ The Dark Book series

A companion to the 5th Worlde

The Lost Templar

Part 2 ~ The Dark Book series

A companion to the 5th Worlde

The Invention of History

Part 1 ~ The Dark Book series

A companion to the 5th Worlde

The Boy with the Third Nipple

Part 1 ~ The Dark Book series

A companion to the 5th Worlde

Coming Autumn 2016

All The Devil's Children

Part 2 of the 5Th Worlde series

Please check the websites for further details.

http://www.KevinDonoghue.com

http://www.5thworlde.com

✪

Published by The Native Publishing Company Ltd

www.go2native.com

First published 2015

2nd edition published 2016

© The Native Publishing Company Ltd 2011-16
