Punk

What Woman Really Want

by Enormous on March 9, 2010

I was accosted by not one but two annoying men this morning.

First, punk drummer Sonny Starr who is so thick that light actually bends around him rang about eight o’clock this morning pleading for some ‘emergency studio time’. Apparently, his band Vince World and the Powertoys whose songs about ‘hot chicks’ with long legs and large ‘Zeppelins’ have been attracting some industry attention lately. I don’t believe for one minute that any record company would ever sign his awful band but according to Sonny ‘somebody massive’ is showing some interest. There again, like a lot of musicians, he is always telling stories without being unduly burdened by veracity.

‘You’re not using the studio,’ I repeated. ‘You’ll have to record your emergency demos somewhere else.’

‘No offence, Davy, but you are a bastard,’ he hissed over the phone.

He’s probably right on that one.

I have just about had it up to here, however, with bands and their songs that not only objectify women, but often belittle and demean them, too.

Next, while Audrey and I were running home over the rec’ to get out of the rain, Nigel-the-dickhead came bounding up to us to tell us what a wonderful night everyone had had in the pub celebrating the return of his wife. ‘She’s not lesbo any more,’ he proudly informed me. ‘Just couldn’t live without me.’

‘Did she realise what she was missing, Nige?’ I asked, tongue firmly in my cheek.

‘Of course. You see, unlike you, Dave . . . ‘

‘Davy.’

‘ . . . unlike you, I know how to treat a woman. I know exactly what they want. Dave.’

I can’t help thinking his errant wife must have had an ulterior motive for going back to him. Something to do with money, no doubt. Or am I being cynical? I simply don’t think any member of the female sex would ever find that tedious man with greasy hair and a face like a bag of frogs – ugly frogs – attractive in any way whatsoever. But that’s just me.

Once again I had been forced to spend a wonderfully edifying few moments being lectured at by Nigel on the subject of women and their desires. I was so happy.

When I got home all my teeth fell out.

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Clang!

by Enormous on October 19, 2009

So, in my dream last night, I had some free time; no one was ill; Enormous had a new bass player – with hair – and a keyboardist who played piano like Steve Nieve; nobody was depressed; nobody was poor.

As happens regularly in my dreams, Audrey could speak English. She said ‘Here are your  pyjamas, father. You forgot to put them on.’

‘I don’t wear such things, darling,’ I told her. ‘I’m an ex-punk rocker. You know that.’

‘But these are your special pyjamas,’ she insisted, ‘the ones you bought in the Bahamas. The ones with the big bananas on.’

‘Oh, those.’

‘Yes, your Bahamas banana pyjamas.’ I smiled at her sweet furry innocence.

There was suddenly a big noise from outside. Clang! Audrey jumped and looked at me with urgent concern in her eyes.

‘It’s all right, girl,’ I told her. ‘It’s just Jennifer Aniston delivering our money.’ She relaxed with a doggy groan. ‘What are you dreaming about?’ I asked her then.

‘I was dreaming about who would win in a fight between a monkey and an emu,’ she said.

‘Monkey, definitely.’ I mused.

When I eventually awoke, I felt even more joy due to the fact that I didn’t have a hangover. I was such a good boy again last night. I was so sober, I was seeing single. I hate hangovers. Being hung-under is eminently more preferable. It is always a tremendous relief when I wake up without one. They make mornings hell. I am always reminded of Wodehouse on the subject when he wrote: ‘The cat stamped into the room.’

Well, that’s all from me for now. Must dash. I am about to savour my Monday morning eleven o’clock orgasm.

Pip-pip!

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Distant Drums

by Enormous on May 28, 2009

Sonny Starr, drummer with the Modern Men rang me last night begging for studio time again.

‘Can you hear me OK? I’m in Dubai!’

‘Good for you, Sonny,’ I shouted over a bad line, ‘but I know what you’re like. Besides, I keep telling you, the studio is too small for a big kit like yours.’

‘I got rid of that, Davy. I’ve just bought one of those cool little Fibes kits. Four-piece.’

My ears pricked up. I love those old 70s drum kits. They are quite unusual: they are made of fibreglass and have a lovely fat, heavy punchy sound that reminds me of the Sweet or Slade. They are quite sought after.

‘This Arab swapped it me for some speed.’

‘You smuggled speed into Dubai!?’

‘Nah. Of course not.’

I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Minty did.’

‘Minty?‘

‘New bass player. Very cool. Bit, though, you know . . . mental.’

‘When you say an Arab swapped the Fibes kit for some speed, Sonny, were you sure no one was watching you? From any parked cars or anything?’

‘Hee hee. Don’t worry, Davy-Boy, it’s only crrrss zzrkkk crkkz.’

‘I can’t hear you, Sonny. Tell me . . . oh, look, it doesn’t matter.’ I carried on shouting into the phone. ‘You definitely are not coming into the studio! Especially with Minty in tow, and especially with a set of drums you acquired using nefarious means from an Arab in Dubai – even if it is an old Fibes kit.’

‘You need some excitement in your life, Davy. Remember what it’s like being in a band?’

‘I’m in a band.’

‘No, you know, I mean . . . a proper band. On tour.’

‘I have enough excitement in my life at the moment, Sonny, thank you very much.’

‘Really? I doubt it. What you gonna do right now after talking to me, for instance?’

‘I’m about to take Audrey for a walk.’

‘Hah! See what I mean? You should be coming with us to this secret booze club near the Australian embassy where they have topless belly dancers.’

‘. . .’

‘You’d love it! Nelson Galaxy would. What you doing after your stupid walk?’

‘I’m going to listen to a little Burt Bacharach and then go to bed.’

‘With your Marks and Spencer’s pyjamas on?’ The line was still bad but I could tell he was laughing on the other end of it. ‘I saw Bacharach on the telly over here the other night,’ he went on, ‘and I’ll tell you this . . .’

‘What’s that, Sonny?’

‘He’s not little.’

‘Very funny. I wish I’d said that.’

‘Don’t worry, Davy, you will. See ya.’

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Hendrix In Nottingham

by Enormous on September 4, 2008

I was in Nottingham yesterday buying some Doc Martens when I noticed a heavily tattooed man cleaning the big front windows of Debenhams department store in Slab Square. It was none other than disgusting punk troubadour Hendrix Sikboy.

Dressed in black leather and sporting a huge peroxide hairdo, he was shouting the lyrics to the Sex Pistols song Pretty Vacant at passing shoppers as he went about his soapy work. I thought he hadn’t seen me but I was wrong. ‘Madman!’ – he calls everyone Madman – ‘Mr Lawrence of Arabia! Dogshagger! Hendrix is a punk rock window-cleaner! Been buying yer new booties?’

‘Hello, Hendrix. No, you can’t book the studio.’

My friend, the drummer Sonny Starr used to play for The Sikboy Federation, Hendix’s old band for whom I once had the misfortune of hosting a three-day recording session. They were a nightmare in the studio: drinking and vomiting, defecating on toilet seats and urinating on visiting black men. Their band motto was We Shag Dogs.

Unfortunately, amongst many other depraved things they did at the time to bolster their notoriety, they actually did abuse Alsatian dogs in this way. They had various video nasties of themselves raping and torturing the poor animals.

‘Bye, Hendrix. I already told Sonny I don’t want anything to do with you.’

‘Dogshagger!’

Many people expect recording studios to be rather glamorous environments, don’t you know.

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Ringing The Changes

by Enormous on August 4, 2008

‘We’ve changed our name again!’ Punk drummer Sonny Starr rang me from Paris last night. ‘We are now called The Ringtones.’

‘Brilliant name, Sonny,’ I told him, ‘but you’re still not coming in the studio.’

‘But listen, Davy man: Hendrix, the singer, right? – he’s having a sex change in October.’

‘. . .’

Makes you wonder how far performers will go sometimes, doesn’t it, to get noticed – or to simply make a point. (Or not – Showbiz Ed.)

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White Dopes on Punk

by Enormous on June 18, 2008

Aren’t teenagers great.

Whilst wandering through the park with Audrey yesterday evening, a group of adolescents dressed as a cross between Marilyn Manson and street urchins from Oliver Twist, thought it would be fun to shout abuse at us from the relative safety of the dilapidated bandstand in which they had ensconced themselves to smoke joints, drink cider and practice their spitting. To complete their entertainment for the evening, one of them had thoughtfully supplied a large beat-box, out of which US punks Green Day were blaring followed by Jay-Z, shouty American Gangster and rap artist, who was declaring: ‘I’m livin’ the dream!’

It was obvious that most of them had not yet learned how to form sentences but one ambitious young female seemed to have at least a basic grasp of the English language and had apparently decided that she would practice its use on passers-by in general and on me in particular. ‘Dirty Pedo!’ was her opening statement which she followed with: ‘My little sister says she saw you in that bus-stop having a wank and touchin’ yer beano. Pedo! She’s told me dad an’ e’s told t’coppers! Yer f***ing pedo!’

We hurried quickly along, trying to ignore the strident volleys of ‘Pedo!’ and ‘Wanker!’ and ‘Kiddie-fiddler!’

How I laughed! It was so amusing, I thought I might invite a German from the Internet around to the house later in the day to eat me.

I just caught the last of the abuse as we were leaving the park and turning the corner into Victoria Street: ‘Do yer ‘ave sex wiv’ yer dog? Pedo!’ The last thing I heard was: ‘I’m telling me dad yer waved yer dandy at me!’ (I think the word was ‘dandy’, I suppose it could have been any number of things, really.)

I know they have a lot of unexpended energy, but why do these youngsters behave in such a disagreeable way to their fellow citizens? Is it a form of seduction? Perhaps they actually quite like me and can think of no other way of introducing themselves. Or, more likely, it is a territorial impulse and they are simply scenting their ground, marking out their patch. Who knows?

I was mulling these things over in my mind after we had returned to the house. While I was making a cup of Earl Grey in the kitchen, I came to the conclusion that these unfortunate children are merely bored and, due to the depressing environment in which they exist and their uninspired and deprived upbringing, have learned no other way of expressing themselves. Stirring the tea, I spilled some of the boiling liquid on to my thumb. ‘Pedo!’ I yelled at the steaming mug before me.

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Mood Swings and Elevators

by Enormous on June 15, 2008

Punk drummer Sonny Starr paid the studio a visit yesterday. I was incredibly busy as usual and did not have the time to pay him much attention or to patronise him in the way to which he has become accustomed.

After he’d finished telling me about how he’d had a ‘right good blow-job’ from a member of Amy Winehouse’s female entourage in an elevator in a hotel in Dublin, he began trying to cajole me into letting him book some studio-time for some spurious band of which he is now a member. ‘We’re called the Mood Swings,’ he told me. ‘It’s sorta punk-jazz.’

I was having none of it. ‘I know you’re trying to book the studio for the Dysons,’ I insisted. ‘They aren’t coming in – not after last time, Sonny.’

‘What do you mean?’ he whined.

‘Your guitarist, Staz. After he’d spent the day sitting in a corner sniffing glue and urinating out of the upstairs window on to passing black men, he took a substantial dump, if you recall, on top of the toilet seat.’

‘Oh, yeah, sorry about that. He ain’t with us anymore.’

‘You still aren’t coming in.’

‘We’ll pay you in speed.’

‘You definitely aren’t going to be recording in this studio.’

‘But we’re jazz, man.’

‘You have no conception of jazz, Sonny. You only have one style of drumming: fast and loud.’

‘No listen,’ he said, ‘it’s easy. You just emphasise the fourth beat of every bar.’ He drummed on the table with his hands to demonstrate. His technique sounded fairly accurate but for some reason, the moment seemed weighed down, depressed.

‘Go away, Sonny,’ I said finally.

‘You’ve changed. You ain’t my friend no more,’ he said quietly. I detected real regret in his words. Opening the heavy door to the control-room, he turned and asked me: ‘Wanna buy some speed?’

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