Big Boy Did It and Ran Away (30 page)

Even Simon saw the sense in this, and the argument shifted from which of Simon’s songs they would play to which of Simon’s suggested covers they would play. In time, however, democracy prevailed, with results that made a fairly compelling argument for fascism. With all sense and judgement being sacrificed in the name of compromise, it was agreed not only that everybody should get to choose a song, but in the absence of any consensus on a lead vocalist, that they should each get to sing it too.

All four of them. Including Ray. In a twenty‐
minute set.

The Ents Convener supplied a minimal PA and a drumkit, making it clear that this was because he did not want the hassle of four different bands lugging their own equipment on and off the bar’s tiny stage. Despite Simon’s whines, they had agreed that this was fair enough, or rather it would have been if one of the amps hadn’t blown in a vain attempt to produce feedback during the first mob’s ridiculously overblown closing number. Amid Simon’s glowering I-told‐
you‐
so’s, and with the Convenor telling them they needed to be on at their allotted time or miss their slot, they had to make some quick decisions, something of a challenge given that the previous record for reaching agreement on anything was two days.

Ross made the apparently selfless gesture of saying that, as the second‐
string guitarist, he should be the one to ‘lute the bullet’
. It was only as the insincere ‘Are you sure?‘s and ‘We’ll make it up to you’s were being muttered that it became clear he wasn’t offering to miss out altogether; merely to go onstage with his axe plugged into the dead amp. Suffering the same muso‐
psychosis as Raymond the Singing Drummer, he still wanted his moment in the spotlight.

Despite this, they opened almost passably, with Div on vocals for The Cure’s Boys Don’t Cry, a blatant crowd‐
pleasing gambit and one that was fairly difficult to really fuck up. Div’s original, democratically allotted selection had been Funny How Love Is, until it was vetoed by Simon’s very serious threat to disband the group rather than stand on the same stage as someone singing anything by Queen. After that, Ross signalled the downhill slide as his nerves prompted him to forget the lyrics to the second verse of A Song From Under the Floorboards, rescued partially by an improvised guitar solo from Simon that filled the gap almost quickly enough to seem intended.

The three minutes that followed would forever haunt Ray’s sense of self‐
worth. Over the toms, he could see baffled and amused looks as the already guitar‐
depleted Bacchae played a version of Lost in the Supermarket that would have been unidentifiable even to Mick Jones, who had written it. With the drum‐
mic level set for backing‐
vocal use, and the mic itself sliding gradually down its decrepit stand, Ray’s singing was drowned by his drumming, which was itself suffering from the contortions he was doing to keep his mouth under the bloody thing. Also, the further the mic slid down the pole, the more it picked up the snare and the less it picked up Ray’s already tremulous voice. By the end of the first chorus, not only was there no vocal audible, but the amplified snare was smothering the guitar and bass too. People at the bar were holding their ears, wincing before each stroke. Simon, meanwhile, looked ready to bludgeon Ray to death with his Les Paul.

The sarcastic applause that followed was the loudest response to the end of any song all afternoon – until, that was, Simon stepped up to the mic. His singing was no better or worse than any of them, and his guitar playing, as already acknowledged, was the band’s greatest asset. The problem was, he couldn’t do both at the same time.

He had somehow concealed this from them during rehearsals, presumably by hiding behind Ross’s rhythm‐
playing and Div’s bass, chiming in his own chords and solos during non‐
vocal breaks. How he had hidden it from himself was a mystery of that river in Egypt. Maybe he hadn’t been hiding, and could play fine in rehearsals but choked in front of an audience (understandably, given what had just transpired). Either way, with Ross strumming an unplugged guitar, Simon couldn’t have been more exposed if he’d been standing there in the buff. He started off playing nothing, and the sparse drums‐
bass‐
and‐
vocal effect might have seemed stylised if Ross wasn’t standing next to him like a haddie, strumming silently away. Throwing in his own chords and solos made things a little conspicuous too. Again, Simon might just have pulled it off if he hadn’t attempted to remedy the situation by suddenly playing Ross’s part. The chords themselves were right, but he simply couldn’t strum in a rhythm different to the lyrics, and the resulting ‘bouncing ball’ effect would have been damn funny if it had happened to four other poor fuckers.

The term following Easter was always the shortest, breaking up after as few as six weeks for end‐
of‐
year exams. This was quite a mercy, as life in the flat after what Div called ‘the deBacchle’ was even uglier than usual. The rest of them didn’t set out to make it three against one, but Simon’s conduct very soon united them against a common and increasingly volatile enemy. It was made clear from early on that this outrage wasn’t something to be laughed off, and it was made even clearer that he was blaming everybody but himself for the fiasco, from his fellow band members to the Ents Convenor and even the long‐
haired numpty who’d buggered the amp kidding on he was Jim Reid.

In a histrionically huffy gesture, Simon moved back to his parents’ place for the run‐
up to his exams, and nobody was brave enough to ask the rhetorical question of whether he’d also be leaving his share of the rent and amenities bills for the remaining month of their lease. The consensus at the time was that it was a small price to pay.

Ray had assumed that the deBacchle was the death of his great rock’n’roll adventure, but a funny thing happened on the way to the funeral. With no chance of getting a fourth tenant at short notice for the fag‐
end of the student year, they had been planning to split the difference between them, until Div had a brainwave. His wee brother, Carl, had just finished Sixth Year at school and was starting at uni after the summer, so Div persuaded his parents to spring for the month’s rent to give the lad a taster course in student living.

Ray had often noted that people’s younger brothers or sisters seemed to have more concentrated versions of their older sibling’s features. Carl didn’t much resemble Div facially, but in easy‐
going attitude there was no mistaking the lineage; and when the kid picked up a guitar, it suddenly made sense not only why Div was a pretty good bassist, but also why he had kept his light under a bushel. The younger sibling’s concentrated feature was sheer, natural musical talent.

With the exams petering out and the last scraps of grant money doing likewise, despite the mental scarring it was inevitable that they’d start jamming again to fill the days. Even if they’d had cash to blow, they were all staying clear of the QM to avoid the awkwardness of running into Simon, though in retrospect Ray realised the Dark Man had his own reasons not to show his face round there.

The sense of harmony was immediately obvious, musically as well as atmospherically. Div’s voice was a natural complement to Carl’s, but this time there was no question of who should be on lead, especially as this guitar hero had no problems playing his instrument at the same time.

At weekends, Carl was hanging out at a place called The Strawberry Club, which was fast becoming the epicentre of Glasgow’s mid‐
Eighties jangly‐
guitars‐
and‐
anoraks scene. It was hosted in a room downstairs from the main dancehall at Rooftops on Sauchiehall Street, an establishment that still described itself as a ‘discotheque’ in those days. It wasn’t quite to the tastes of Div, Ross or Ray, as even self‐
consciously twee and sugary music was still twee and sugary, but they went along now and again because the QM disco was closed for the summer and the mainstream clubs were full of neds dancing to horrible records in between glass fights. The Strawberry Club carried no such threat, with smiling politeness being an affected part of the scene. People brought sweeties and handed them round, and they spoke with exaggeratedly formal pronunciation, like they’d all been to elocution lessons. It was as revolting as it sounded.

Carl, as it turned out, wasn’t just there to dance and chat up girls, much as he enjoyed both. He was at all times being a busy little networker, sufficient to get involved in organising a ‘showcase night’ to be hosted by The Strawberry Club in the main hall upstairs. At this grand janglathon, a number of unsigned hopefuls would get to share a bill topped by some more established local names, in front of an audience including several invited representatives of indie record labels. And on this bill, of course, would be Carl’s own band, as yet unnamed.

The trauma of the deBacchle hadn’t quite been exorcised by this point, so Ross and Ray took a bit of persuading, eventually being talked round by Carl’s promise that he’d heard a few of the demo tapes and there was ‘no way they would be the shitest band there’. Besides, they had six weeks to get ready, which was almost as long as the entire lifespan of The Bacchae from conception to abortion. What they didn’t have was a handle, but that was quickly remedied. Div announced with a grin that ‘we have to be The Arguments’, and received no dissent amid the laughter.

Another thing they didn’t have was original material, or rather they thought they didn’t have it until Carl judiciously chose his moment to reveal ‘a few things he’d been working on’. Haunted by the ludicrously overambitious compositions Simon had inflicted upon them, Ray was ready to be sceptical until Carl started playing his twelve‐
string. The only experience subsequently comparable was listening to a new Teenage Fanclub album: the songs were all so instantly likeable that you could swear you’d heard them before. They were simple, melodic and tantalisingly reminiscent of about ten other bands at once. It needed also to be said that Carl’s lyrics were atrocious, but you couldn’t have everything.

However, for all his musical eclecticism, there was one thing Carl shared with his Bacchic predecessor: Queen were not to be tolerated. They were old, pompous and bombastic and, worst crime of all, his big brother loved them. Div, therefore, couldn’t resist stitching him up. One Sunday, rehearsing in their parents’ garage, Div picked up the twelve‐
string and started playing the euphorically jangly opening chords of Funny How Love Is. Recognising it and getting a sly look from Div, Ray joined in with a stomp on the bass drum and booming toms. Carl, naturally assuming they were just jamming, picked out a looping riff on electric, sharing nods and smiles like they did when something was generally agreed to be ‘happening’. Then Div stepped up to the mic and started singing, confident in the knowledge that his wee brother had no idea of the song’s source. Played as it was, it sounded like it could have been by any number of trippy late Sixties outfits, and the lyrics about coming home for tea were deceptively far away from Scaramouche and Beelzebub.

‘Oh man, that was excellent,’ Carl said. ‘We’ve got to do it again.’ And they got through it twice more before he asked the obvious question.

And so it came to pass that the Strawberry Suckers ((c) Div 198‐
) found themselves cheering The Arguments to the proverbial echo for playing a song by the band that best represented the very antithesis of what jangly indie‐
pop was all about.

Possibly the only other person to recognise the track was the QM Ents Convenor, who had been invited in case he fancied booking any of the acts. He declared their contribution ‘Fuckin’ top … Queen, man – yous have some balls,’ and offered them the opening slot on the bill for the forthcoming Lloyd Cole and the Commotions gig. He also confided that ‘this scene’s doin’ my fuckin’ heid in. One more bunch of twee cunts gets on that stage an’ I’m gaunny lose the place.’

It was an inopportune moment for one of the anoraked denizens to present himself, proffer a white paper bag and say: ‘Hello there. My name’s Adrian. Would you like a sweetie?’ The Ents Convenor decked the guy with a solid right hook before being dragged away and ejected by several bouncers. Rooftops, having about a dozen flights of stairs, was probably the worst venue in the city to get thrown out of, but that had presumably been far from the Ents Convenor’s mind when the red mist descended.

Among the masses (well, a couple of hundred at least) musically unequipped to spot the hand of Mercury was a bloke called Jim Collins, who ran a small Edinburgh‐
based indie label, StarJet. He wore NHS‐
style specs that nonetheless probably cost him a mint, and talked like a horse‐
racing commentator on caffeine, suggesting an endless list of musical comparisons and speculative influences. His strike rate was impressive enough to make Ray wonder whether he had just burgled their flat, though one name was amusingly missing. Collins said he’d get them studio time and release one single as long as it was ‘that last one, Funny, was it called?’

Of course, he freaked when he found out, but not before the song and its two‐
track B side were in the can, by which time also the ink was long dry on the contract.

The NME’s singles reviewer called it ‘a work of three‐
minute alchemy: turning truly base material into something special’. Div wanted to deck the bastard, but the review (and no doubt the Queen catalogue completists) did help them make it into the indie chart, peaking at eleven. One place higher would have been enough to get them a mention on the ITV Chart Show, but as they didn’t have a video anyway, it made no odds. Jim was hardly going to spring for something like that considering he wouldn’t even pay for a photographer for the single’s sleeve.

A mate of Carl’s took that picture, a big lanky bloke called Steff. Ray never found out whether he turned pro, but The Arguments definitely didn’t. They had a memorable couple of months, as new bands often did back in those days when records stayed in the charts for more than a nanosecond. There were lots of local gigs and a few more mentions in the inkies, the largest a half‐
column news‐
story‐
cum‐
interview in the Melody Maker, written with a predictably snide tone because the TIME had given the single a good write‐
up. It was fun, it was exciting and it was a temporary distraction from the unavoidable truth, which was that they weren’t a real band: they were two hacks, one journeyman and Carl. Everybody could see that, not least themselves.