“I don’t fucking care so piss off!” Keith yelled back.
“You better fucking care! This could be our break. You’re spoiling everything.”
“Go on,” I said.
“I won’t go until you promise you’ll be here when I get back.”
I sat up and pushed the hair from my eyes. “I can’t go anywhere tonight. But I’m not sure I’ll finish the tour.”
Ryan banged on the door so hard I almost saw it heave. “Get the fuck out here now! You’re ruining our one big chance
“You don’t know that so fuck off.”
“Go. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll do one more show, but won’t promise more.”
Ryan banged on the door again. “Get the fuck out here!”
Keith sighed in defeat. “All right, man, don’t get your fucking bollocks in a twist!”
The banging stopped and Keith sat beside me. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.” He bent down to kiss me. I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him back.
We held each other awhile, not saying anything, when Ryan banged on the door again. “Would you hurry the fuck up?”
With Keith gone, I lay wondering if he had been honest.
The next thing I was aware of was being jolted awake at noon by Ryan again banging on the door. I looked over at Keith. He didn’t stir. Whenever he’d dragged himself back, he’d obviously pushed the beds together. His nude body was splayed uncovered.
I shook him. “Get up!” I grabbed his clothes off the floor and threw them at him.
He only grunted so I gave him another shove. “Get up! It’s noon already.”
Keith opened one eye. “Bloody hell!” He sat up momentarily, then flopped back.
“No going back to sleep.” I gave him another shove while scrambling into a sun frock. I rinsed my mouth at the tiny sink, tied up my hair and saw Keith stagger out of bed and pull on his clothes.
“I’ll get us something to eat and meet you in the van.” I didn’t look forward to spending who knows how long in that wretched van. Being on this tour was as glamorous as sleeping in a bed of used socks.
I grabbed what food I could –- some pastries, yogurt, bananas and tea, then headed to the van. The drive to Plymouth was four hours. I hoped Ryan was okay to drive. He seemed as comatose as everyone else. No one mentioned anything about the meeting. No one was very conversational at all. I gobbled my breakfast and used my clothing bag as a pillow.
I woke when the van stopped. “It’s your fucking turn to drive,” Ryan told Keith. “I’m too knackered to continue. You’re lucky I got us this far.”
“Sure, no problem,” Keith said with a yawn. “Where the fuck are we?”
“A petrol station in Swindon. I’ll fill the tank if you lot get something to eat. Don’t spend more than twenty quid.”
As the band members woke, they turned into children. They took turns riding the shopping trolley –- pushing each other at break-neck speed down the aisles. I ignored the stares we got and was sorry the video camera was in the van. The trolley was piled with baguettes, cheese, crisps, orange juice and beer and looked in excess of the twenty quid limit.
By the time we arrived in Plymouth, it was past six. We went straight to the club.
My postcards, now immortalized by a copier, left me with nothing to do. I wondered if my parents missed me? The issue with the drugs still gnawed at me, and though I’d slept a couple hours in the van, I fought waves of sleepiness. Not even the crescendo of the band practicing Mott The Hoople’s All The Way to Memphis energized me.
The music stopped. Keith jumped off the stage and went to me. What d’ya say we blow this place and spend time alone?
I grabbed my belongings and followed him.
“Only two more gigs after tonight,” Keith reminded as he wrapped an arm around me and hoisted his guitar onto his back.
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t looking forward to the next two days.
At least our room was nicer than the last two. The bed was so tempting, but there wasn’t time even for a quick nap. There was barely time to change into my concert clothes, wash, and do my makeup.
Keith crept up behind me while I did my hair and kissed the back of my neck.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I said. “We barely have time to eat before the show and I’ll be too tired after.”
“Are you still pissed off at me?”
I set down the brush and gave my hair a toss. “I’m too tired to be anything.” I wound up my courage to ask, “What happened with the bloke from the record company?”
“I don’t know. He wants to consult comrades. Maybe he’ll get back to us. But we have to have control over our work. I won’t have any bloody wankers in suits dictating how to play my songs. There’ll be plenty of record execs at Roskilde. I’ll need you there more than ever. I’m not doing drugs. I promise.”
“I’m trying to believe you – really I am. Now will you let me get ready?”
“As you wish.” He kissed me before picking up his guitar and flopping onto the bed.
The show that night wasn’t as well attended, so I wasn’t kept as busy. As I sat, waves of sleep tried overtaking me. When the band came
out for autographs, Keith kept pinching me from behind or grabbing me
for impromptu kisses, causing some girls to glare at me. Good, I
thought. Maybe they’ll see he’s attached and not get so stupid around him.
“You two have to tone down your affections in front of the fans,” Ryan said when the club emptied. “It’s hurting our sales. We could have gotten tons more pictures taken if you two weren’t so all over each other.”
Keith stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not a fucking teen idol!”
I loaded the unsold merchandise into boxes while Ryan argued with Keith.
“If you two want to argue,” I said. “I’ll take a taxi back.”
“I’m with you, luv,” Keith said. “Let’s load the van and get the hell out of here. I’ve had six hours sleep in three days.”
I loaded the lighter boxes into the van, then found a vacant sofa backstage to wait.
Apparently I fell asleep because the next thing I was aware of was Keith shaking me. “Wake up, Sleepy Head. Time to go.”
The next morning we’d barely sat down for breakfast when Ryan burst in.
“There you two fucking are! I overslept again. I just roused Billy and Jimmy but when I got no answer at your room I came here. We’re out of here ten minutes tops.” He grabbed a couple sweet rolls, made himself some tea and left.
Ten minutes passed before Billy and Jimmy staggered in, half awake and unshaven. Unfortunately they joined us.
“Come on, luv. Let’s leave these wankers. I’ll track down Ryan and offer to drive to wherever we’re going next.”
We hit the road an hour late, which put Ryan in a foul mood.
When we neared Southampton, Keith grabbed the map and threw it to the back seat. “Someone navigate. I don’t know where the fuck I’m going.”
“Take the next exit and head straight to the venue,” Ryan instructed at long last. “We need to get to the sound check like now.”
Ryan’s inability to read a map never ceased to astound me. He was oblivious to this.
Finally, after going in circles several times, Keith pulled the van over. “Give me that fucking map. I’ll find the way.”
“No!” Ryan yelled. “We’re late. I’ll get you there!”
“You’re getting us fucking lost. Give me the bloody map.”
“I’ll read the bloody map.” Jimmy grabbed the map, ripping it in two.
“Now look what you fucking did!” Ryan screamed.
“If you’d let someone navigate who could read a fucking map, we’d be there,” Jimmy yelled back.
“Where are we bloody playing?” Keith asked. “I’ll fucking ask directions.”
“It’s called The Hub,” Ryan said. “It’s supposed to be on Bath Street, but Bath Street isn’t on the fucking map.”
Billy rolled down his window, sticking half his body out. “Oi, luv,” he yelled at some girl walking by. “Do you know how to get to The Hub on Bath Street?”
For some reason, this girl found nothing unusual about a lanky kid with a grass green Mohawk hanging out a dilapidated van. She casually told him we were about two blocks away and needed to make a right at the end of the block.
Billy blew her kisses without altering his position. “You’re beautiful, luv. Come see us play tonight. You won’t be disappointed!”
I wasn’t sure if Keith realized Billy was still hanging out the window as he thrust the van in gear, nearly sending him flying from it.
“Would you fucking wait ‘til I’m back in, you wanker?” he yelled.
Everyone else laughed.
The girl’s directions were bang on and Keith came to a screeching halt at the back entrance.
The club was seedy –- the type of environment where punk should be played. The dance floor had huge cracks in the wood and dark splotches looking like cigarette burns. I found the women’s toilet to put on my makeup, then ventured backstage.
“Are you hanging about?” Keith asked me. “We won’t be long.”
“I’ll stay,” I replied. I wanted to explore, but wanted to keep tabs on Keith more.
After half an hour, Keith jumped off the stage. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll get something to eat and maybe do a little sight-seeing before the sun goes down.” He hoisted his guitar onto his back and wrapped one arm around me.
“I don’t have much money left,” I said as we left the club.
“I have more than enough. Let’s find some place nice for a change.”
I eyed him suspiciously. “Are you raiding your trust fund?”
He looked annoyed, but I wouldn’t feel guilty. “No, I weaseled a few quid off Ryan.”
We took our things from the van and caught a taxi to the hostel. The hostel had a cozy, Victorian reception area with fireplace in the lobby. So far it seemed nicer than the last few we stayed in. We checked in and I was further delighted that we had an en-suite room with a double bed.
I insisted on changing into my concert attire, much to Keith’s chagrin. “I still don’t understand why women take so much time with their appearance. You don’t see me changing clothes more than once a day and spending hours at the mirror.”
“I can’t go to shows wearing a sun frock,” I insisted. “And I surely wouldn’t be comfortable riding in that van dressed in my concert clothes. Besides, you don’t even change your clothes every day. It’s more like every three or four.”
Keith broke into a big grin. “You’re right. I prefer you in those short skirts. I get to gaze at your sexy legs all night. Those long frocks leave everything to the imagination. Carry on. I’ll just sit back and watch you undress.” He gave me an impish grin.
I didn’t laugh. I wanted him to know I was still upset.
We ended up in an area called Barbican. The second we arrived was like stepping through a time machine. Except for the cars, everything looked 500 years old with stone buildings and cobble-stoned streets. We stumbled upon an ancient looking bistro and settled into an outside table. I feasted on prawns over rice and a glass of chardonnay — the second real meal I’d had all tour.
We wandered through the streets after, before finding a beach.
“I’m running through the water,” I said. “Come on with me.”
“I’ve got Levis on,” Keith protested. “I can’t perform all night in wet clothes.” He got a mischievous look on his face. “We can have fun in the sand.”
He somehow pushed me down and started kissing me. “What’s more romantic than shagging by the sea?” He ran his right hand up my skirt.
I quickly slapped it away. “You twat! You’re getting sand in my knickers.”
Keith’s face lit up. “Really? I’ll gladly help get the sand out.”
I could no longer hide my mirth. “Let me up!”
He helped me to my feet.
We climbed the concrete stairs from the beach, I bought chocolate ice cream, and we strolled along the promenade, somehow ending up back at our room.
We barely got inside before Keith scooped me into his arms and slammed the door with his foot.
I started giggling. “What are you doing? Put me down.”
He dropped me on the bed and climbed on top of me. “Not until I have my way with you.” He ran his hands up my skirt again, kissing me the entire time.
“Didn’t Ryan say we had to all meet by seven? It’s past six now. There’s no time.”
“I don’t fucking care.” He wiggled out of his t-shirt and unbuttoned his Levis. “I’m going to ravish you. We’re newlyweds, but this bloody tour is preventing me from performing my duties.”
We kissed and caressed each other while our clothes systematically dropped to the floor –- so much for getting ready ahead of time. Within seconds we were going at each other like jackrabbits. It was so glorious that if angels existed, they were singing us a concert. The stresses of the tour, the discovery of the drugs, were now forgotten and replaced with feelings of joy, euphoria, and absolute bliss. The world again spun harmoniously.
We were going at it heavily when Ryan banged on the door. “Come on, Keith, I know you’re there. The chap at reception saw the two of you come in. I got us an interview at the university’s radio station.”
“Fuckin’’ aye! Go without me,” Keith yelled.
“The hell I will. Get the fuck out here!”
“I’m with my wife, man. Now fuck off!”
Ryan banged on the door again. “You’re making us all late.”
“Bugger off!”
“Forget it. My mood is gone,” I said. I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. “Fuck you!” I heard Keith yell. “Piss off or I won’t be able to perform tonight.”
“I’m returning in fifteen minutes,” was the last I heard from Ryan before turning the shower on.
Keith joined me. “I must find him a fucking girlfriend so he has something else to occupy his time besides torturing me with interviews and the like.”
When Ryan pounded again, we were dressed, but I still hadn’t done my makeup. I wasn’t thrilled with going, but knew Keith wouldn’t leave without me.
Keith opened the door.
“Finally!” Ryan uttered. “Get your guitars! The promoters said advance ticket sales are sluggish so I sought out this station that agreed to interview and play songs off our tape.”
Billy and Jimmy were waiting in the car park, kicking a football. I tried my best to put on my makeup using my compact mirror as the van weaved through traffic. I wished I was still on the beach.
Ryan parked and we hopped out. Ryan told the lads to grab their favorite tapes. The station wanted them to spin some of their favorite punk songs.
“Don’t forget Duran Duran,” I said with a smirk.
Jimmy took me seriously. “Bloody hell we will. They’ll think we’re a bunch of pansies if we play that rubbish.”
Keith grabbed his acoustic guitar, wrapped one arm around me and we ventured inside. We were lead to a small cubicle with three microphones, a turntable and a bunch of electronic gadgetry. The announcer was a Jamaican bloke who looked early twenties. He had bronze skin and gorgeous dreadlocks roaming down his back. His name was Chris and and he had an American accent. He said he was born in England, raised in New York City, and recently returned to attend university.
When Billy and Jimmy learned he was from New York City, they pummeled him with questions. “What’s it like there? Did you ever meet anyone famous?”
“Did you ever see The Ramones play?” I asked.
“Twice. Unfortunately I’m too young to have seen them at CBGBs.”
The song playing over the airwaves ended and Chris was back on the air. He mentioned he had London’s hottest independent punk band
The Piss Ants in the studio, briefly adding they were playing at the Hub and there were plenty of tickets left. He asked each member to introduce themselves, starting with Jimmy, then Billy. When Keith’s turn came, he simply responded, “I’m Keith.”
“And what do you do? Can you elaborate a little more?” Chris urged.
“Give him time. He has to warm up to you,” Billy quipped.
“Well . . .” Keith continued. “You’ve got your bass player and your drummer. That only leaves one thing vital in a punk rock band.”
“Okay, suffice to say you’re guitarist and lead vocals.”
Keith didn’t respond.
“You write all the band’s songs, don’t you?”
“No, we do some covers.”
“But the record you released is all originals. You wrote all those?”
“I wrote the lyrics, came up with the basic tune, but we all collaborate to make viable songs. If you buy our tape tonight, you can see for yourself who writes the songs, who the blokes in the band are, etcetera.”
“All right, all right,” Chris answered. “Just getting the formalities out of the way.”
“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” Keith jumped in. “Do you think it’ll rain tomorrow? There, I got the formalities out of the way. Now can we get to some real questions? I’d rather spend quality time with my bride, but my manager says we need to sell tickets instead.”
“Oh, you just married. That’s a topic for conversation.”
“No it isn’t. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“Play something from the record,” Jimmy jumped in. “Your listeners can get a taste of what they’re in for when they come see us.”
“Which song do you recommend?” Chris asked.
“No Connection,” Jimmy said. “That’s consistently popular at our shows.”
As it played, I couldn’t resist asking Chris what other American punk acts he saw.
“By the time I came of age, most the original bands had split. The best bands were from California, like the Dead Kennedys and X. I did see Iggy a couple times.”
“We don’t like American punk,” Jimmy piped up. “The Brits do it best.”
Chris pretended to act insulted. “Hey, Americans did punk first. Iggy was punk before it was called punk.”
“So was Mott The Hoople,” Jimmy shot back.
“Sorry, Mate, Iggy predates Mott The Hoople,” Chris responded.
No Connection ended and Chris was back on air. “That was No Connection by The Piss Ants who are still here. So what is the significance of that song? It sounds angry.”
“Of course it’s bloody angry,” Keith replied. “It’s punk rock.”
“What are you angry about?”
“The same thing everyone is angry about or should be. Oppression.”
“Is that what this song is about? Oppression?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be. That’s the beauty of art. What it means to me can mean something totally different to someone else.”
“You seem reluctant to share your inner thoughts about your music.”
“If I share my inner thoughts it would spoil it, wouldn’t it? If the music speaks to you, enjoy it. Hopefully it inspires you to take action. Listen to our song called All You Punk Rockers,” Keith insisted. “I think it’s the most inspirational.”
“Who are the oppressors?”
“The establishment, of course,” Jimmy answered.
“More specifically Maggie Thatcher,” Keith added. “She’s the enemy of the worker, but they’re too scared to do anything. Everyone has the right to a decent wage and a safe work environment, but she’s gutted the unions so the worker has no rights at all. One fucking person at the top gets all the money while the worker breaks his fucking back. We don’t think that’s right, so we’re singing about it.”
“What about those who say music should be for entertainment and not politics?”
“Human rights shouldn’t be political,” Keith said. “As for music being for entertainment only, that’s bollocks. Music’s been used to fight oppression since time began. Look at the slaves in America. A lot of great folk and gospel songs came from that.”
Chris put on All You Punk Rockers and we chatted more about how American politics were similar to those of England and and how things needed to change. Two more songs from the tape were played along with three songs each band member chose. Chris also took calls from listeners.
The radio exposure obviously worked. The club was packed.
An hour and a half later, the last song ended. “Goodnight punks of Plymouth. We’re ecstatic you all came tonight. My lovely wife, Brigitte is selling our tape. We need a few quid to get to our next gig.”
“For an extra two pounds you get pictures taken with the band,” Billy added.
They left the stage, but the audience wasn’t ready to go home. The familiar chants of Piss Ants! Piss Ants! Piss Ants! echoed throughout.
I slipped backstage. Everyone immediately lit cigarettes and opened bottles of beer. Keith grabbed me again for an impromptu kiss.
“Your admirers grow restless,” Ryan announced. “Let’s get back out there.”
Billy and Jimmy took a couple more swigs, dropped their half smoked cigarettes to the floor and headed out.
“Oi, you coming, Keith? Jimmy asked.
“I’ll be there,” was Keith’s casual response. We began kissing.
I heard the audience cheer as Billy and Jimmy returned. Then Billy announced, “Keith’s not coming yet. He’s backstage getting a blow job from his misses.”
“That bastard!” Keith yelled. “I’ll bloody get even.”
Jimmy’s voice rang out next. “I want everyone yelling, Keith! Keith loud enough to hear in fucking France!”
The audience yelled so loudly, the whole club shook. Keith let go of me after one more kiss and returned to the stage. The chants erupted into cheers. “It’s so lovely to be wanted. For twenty quid Billy’s offering blow jobs for ladies only after the show.”
Before Billy responded, Keith tore into the opening chords of Clash City Rockers and the band had no alternative but to follow.
When the band left the stage, I headed back to the merchandise table. The band came out after fifteen minutes, cigarettes and beer in tact and I again was bombarded. Keith announced pictures with the band were only a quid with the purchase of a postcard. Those with cameras immediately took him up on his offer. Ryan was drafted as photographer.
When the last concertgoer straggled out, I counted my loot and though they didn’t deserve it, dropped a few quid into the band coffers.
I hoped Keith’s amorous mood continued. During the tour, his moods swung from one extreme to another. I pushed all negative thoughts from my mind and tried convincing myself it was due to tour stress and not drugs.
[To be continued… Click here to view all chapters.]
