The backing music is cheap, unbalanced and very, very loud. Incredibly the singer, a young girl called Nikki Benson, is cheaper, more unbalanced and even louder. Her boyfriend is doing the sound (or should that be noise?) and also working the lights, which throw rapidly spinning multi-coloured beams around the room, highlighting the fallen ceiling tiles and sticky carpet. The house lights – five foot high power double fluorescent strips - are still on after the bingo, and the combined effect is making me nauseous. There are less than thirty people present (mostly skinny men with fat wives or girlfriends), apart from two apparently single women at my end of the bar, who I am desperately trying to avoid. I have made the unfortunate mistake of losing my cigarette lighter, and the club (which shall remain nameless to protect the innocent – ie me) is out of matches.
Cue the two women who delight in leaning provocatively forward to light my cigarettes and leer at me all evening. Both of them wear long, black, shapeless dresses with gaudy floral patterns, made from very cheap synthetic - and probably highly flammable - material. The older of the women has dyed and tightly permed red hair, red skin, loosely fitting false teeth, and is two sizes larger than her dress. The younger – she could be anything between thirty and fifty - is tall, pale and thin, and looks more like a man than I do. She smiles suggestively at me, and I realize with horror that I have been staring at her, which she has taken as a sign of encouragement. I have in fact been gazing at her hair, which is extremely thin, colourless and wispy, allowing occasional glimpses of her grey and blotchy scalp. I have seen this type of hair before, and it always belongs to people on a very low income, with a very poor diet, and usually of rather low intellect. It reminds me of baby hair, the kind of stuff that some infants are born with and that falls out to be replaced by proper hair. I wonder absently if it’s the same as babies’ milk teeth that fall out to be replaced by proper teeth. Milk hair perhaps….?
My attention is wandering so I try to concentrate on the job in hand. I have to watch the singer very carefully and make a list of all the songs she performs, which is not as easy as it sounds. She doesn’t announce any of the songs, but belts them out non-stop at high volume and in rapid succession, barely pausing for breath or applause. This is just as well as there is no applause. There rarely is at these events, and it is rarely deserved. She carries on regardless, with overwhelming confidence in her talent and vocal ability, yet with complete indifference to the audience. She is there, like the bingo caller, pint puller, pie microwaver, and half- hearted toilet cleaner, to do a job, get paid, and get off home to bed. I reflect that in many ways I am no better than the rest of them. I will get paid my pittance for enduring tonight’s entertainment, and in an odd way have become part of the whole sorry show.
The object of endeavours is to find out what music is being played in public the UK these days, so that the writers can get their royalties (this was previously estimated and wildly inaccurate). ‘In public’ can mean almost anything outside of the home, and like everything else these days, it costs money. Workingmen’s clubs, posh hotels, supermarkets and shopping malls, lifts even, all have to register with the Performing Rights Society and pay for a license. Licenses don’t come cheap, and vary according to type of premises, capacity etc. but are essential, as without a license you can have no music on your premises, and therefore no punters. So my job is not particularly important, in the grand scale of things, but can make all the difference to a struggling songwriter, and has already led to a decrease in Paul McCartney’s earnings, and an increase in Reg Presley’s, which makes me feel very proud.
Tonight I am driven to identifying the songs by actually listening to them, which is hard on the ears and the soul, as Ms. Benson uses every pub-singer trick in the book to stamp her authority on the poor defenseless tunes, practically obliterating all traces of melody or meaning as she does. Like most in her profession, she has been persuaded, either by her deluded mum and dad, her tone–deaf boyfriend, or an unscrupulous and uncaring agent that she is, or should be a star, and only the public remain to be convinced. Unfortunately we are not, and never will be, which far from putting her off only increases her determination, not to mention volume. When she launches into Lulu’s ‘Shout’ - which is at least recognizable - I fear for the safety of the club’s glassware. She warbles, screeches, moans, gyrates, gets down and dirty, whispers hoarsely, cries fake tears, and bellows like a demented beast at each finale, all of which helps to obscure the identity of the song in hand. Depressingly, she is no better or worse than any other singer I have seen in the past 6 months, and there are still plenty more to see. Ah well, that’s Showbiz, as they say.
After a break for the bingo - there is always bingo – and a cigarette in the litter strewn car-park, my duties demand that I return to my ripped rexine seat in a large crumbling bay window. The dirty floral curtains are permanently open, perhaps in an attempt to lure the unwary in to sample the club’s delights. I notice that the curtains are actually thin strips of cheap material tied back to look like curtains, but are nothing more than a prop, and seem to symbolize the shallow and illusory nature of things here. The view from the window takes in a few rows of small grimy terraced houses with a glimpse of the dark valley below and of the darker hills beyond, which judging by their unnatural shape, used to be coal-tips. Between the houses and the brooding hills a group of redundant concrete towers stand like watchtowers.
As I watch the scene changes rapidly as behind me I hear the singer return to the stage, and the bingo caller’s solo spotlight is replaced once again by her electric rainbow. The spectacle on stage is now perfectly mirrored in the window-pane but by some optical trick is actually projected beyond the window and across the road. Nikki Benson is once again strutting her funky stuff beneath the garish lights, the whole sickly show now appearing to be taking place on the pavement in front of the dark and silent houses, against a deep blue evening sky. An icy full moon appears in the top left of the frame, high above the towers, and shines down to where she is cavorting dementedly. It is like watching something in an alternative universe, and sadly, quite beautiful. I wish I had a camera, but cameras are against the very strict rules, which also forbid writing about, or publishing any details of these events.
The second half is depressing as the first, and after an unbidden encore of I Will Survive (No 2 live song in this month’s survey). Nikki stomps off stage downing a pint of lager in one gulp, and I sneak out without molestation. A snatch of Bob Dylan lyrics – Something is happening here, and you don’t know what it is – pops into my head, but as I start the car, turn on a most welcoming radio Four, reassuring headlights illuminating the scarred and battered townscape, Gloria Gaynor returns. I head down the valley towards the coastal belt and civilization, with I Will Survive still ringing in my ears. Whether the peculiar world of working mens’ clubs and pubs will survive is debatable. Karaoke machines have replaced community choirs, and ‘star turns’ stand in for troubadours. But the urge to entertain remains, as flashing lights and cheap, tinny, pa systems amplifying cheap tinny singers, proliferate not only here in the so called Land Of Song, but all over Britain from Newquay to Newcastle.
A week later I am on more familiar turf at the “legendary” club in Newport that is supposed to be at the centre of the Welsh music scene - and partly led to Newport being dubbed the “The New Seattle”. This is the place where bands like Oasis and The Manic Street Preachers played and hung around before they were famous. It is even rumoured that Curt Cobain proposed to Courtney love here, and that it was the late John Peel’s favourite club. I have been a regular here for many years and never bumped into him at the tatty bar or in the piss-flooded toilets. I am not optimistic. Three unknown bands from Swansea are putting on a showcase gig, which means that if there is an audience, it will consists of a few mates who blagged a ride in the van in exchange for humping the gear in and out, one or two people who are lost, and the odd drunk. The bands are called Calamity, Dry Rot, and S.E.X. I approach each band in turn to let them know about the survey, and ask them for a set list, which would make my job a lot easier. The singer from Dry Rot is very quiet and helpful, and when he later screams and growls lyrics like “You fucking slut! You fucking slut! You fucking slut!” I am quite surprised. This is from a song called Slut, which is quickly followed by one called Whore. They have a pretty, friendly, female bass player who seems to be the singer’s girlfriend. Strange.
When I approach Calamity, the young, skinny male singer goes ape, shouting “Fuck Off! You’re trying to steal my songs!” I shout back – most professionally - “Don’t be such a stupid twat. I can write better songs through my arse!” He moves away, apparently satisfied with my response. He later turns out to be even nicer than the other guy and gives me his phone number in the hope that I can get them a gig. During the evening and after several free pints (I am acquainted with the landlord), I hit upon the plan that I could become a showbiz agent, and thereby make my fortune, by cross-matching acts and venues while I’m trawling through the dubious world of South Wales’s night life. The problem, I soon realize, is that after two years on the job I have found one good act. Unfortunately Calamity are not it, and neither are Dry Rot.
The third band - S.E.X. - puzzle me. They are much older, and look like Queen without Freddie Mercury. In fact the singer Ray looks like Bryan May only better looking and taller, which makes the rest of the band look like dwarves. Ray is an old hand. He is a member of PRS and they have made albums, which were minor hits (so he tells me) in Europe. They are in this months Guitarist magazine, which savages their latest demo. Despite this they are immensely proud, and they make me read the review. I receive a set list which includes songs like I’m A Rock Star and Big Knob.
“Did Guitarist magazine miss the point?” I ask Ray. “Are you guys taking the Piss?”
He smiles and shows me the cover of their demo CD. It features a half dressed nubile young girl, barely legal by the look of her.
“Stick around and find out “ He says.
I will have to. It’s my job.
Yes S.E.X are taking the piss, out of themselves mainly, and they do a great job of it. The audience - a few more people have wandered in - love them. They are totally politically non correct and self parodying. The band start without Ray, with slow, grinding guitar and throbbing bass and drums, and the lights down low. A single red spotlight illuminates Ray’s spot at the front and a wave of fog from a cheap dry ice machine rolls across the low stage, tumbling onto the dance floor. As the music cranks up ever louder Ray appears from the dressing room - the toilet actually - in a black cape and rhinestone studded cod piece. With his head bowed and his long black hair covering his face and bare chest, he falls to his knees and slithers like snake all the way across the filthy dance-floor on his belly. Dragging himself onto the stage he screams an introduction.
“I am the King of Sex, the God of Love!” and asks “Can you people at the back see my codpiece? Well you should be able to because it’s resting on your shoulder!”
And so the show goes on. My favourite number in the set is I’m a Rock Star, with the chorus : I’m a rock star. I’m a rock star. I’m a rock star … in my tiny little mind”.
The only people in the building who take this band seriously are the lead guitarist, who thinks he’s Yngwe Malmsteen, and a young girl. She is hanging around with the younger bands and is very pretty, but extremely thin, and has that translucent skin and faraway eyes that tells me she is a heroin user. She writhes around on the floor like a beautiful and bewitching serpent, and looks incredibly fragile, and I want to rescue her. I decide that someone else will have to do it this time, my life is too short. I pray to God hers isn’t.
S.E.X. camp it up big style, and the novelty of their act draws a few more passing punters, who as usual pop in for quick look before trying other local dives. I recognize a few of them as hard drinking men who have nowhere better to go and nothing better to do. Among these is Gay Dave, an old acquaintance of mine, who despite being a rough tough construction worker, came out about five years ago. Dave, who is even less politically correct then S.E.X. seems to be on a mission to convert everyone to his new faith, but despite the fact that he claims to get a lot of ‘trouser action’, I remain unconvinced. He makes a bee-line for me and we chew the usual fat and enjoy the band until some student who thinks he’s it starts heckling. He, like Guitarist magazine, has also missed the point. Dave shouts “Oi wanker! If you can do better go on, otherwise shut the fuck up!” Dave is four feet wide and is as hard as iron.
Dave and I get to talking about the old days, and how he “got started” as he puts it. When I was about seven my mum used to take me to visit my auntie, and he was the kid next door. We played together occasionally, but lost touch, then when I went to high school I recognised him there. There was another, much longer, gap until Dave started frequenting the same pubs and clubs as me. I was divorced and it turned out so was he. He, however, was hanging around with a few oddballs and then one night he just shouted out in a crowded club “I'm as queer as fuck!” That’s one way to do it I suppose…
Dave confides in me. “All the boys in the area must have fucked me.”
He means then, when we were kids, and I am genuinely horrified. To think I used to play hide and seek with him! He then remembers some photos in his wallet and shows me one of him as a young kid on his mothers lap, with a patch over his eye.
“I think someone threw a stone at me. It might have been that boy next door” He laughs.
He means me, and I say “If I’d known you were an arse bandit I’d have thrown a few more!”
We have a good laugh and realise that we’ve missed most of the set. Dry Rot come on last, and as they say in Liverpool, they are last. They would be OK if the singer could be made to understand that he doesn’t have to intimidate us by screaming, growling and snarling. It’s an anticlimax but I have to stick it out to the end, and so does Dave as he’s hoping to pick up one of the boys - any one of the boys - from Calamity or Dry Rot.
A few evenings later I am on my way out of town, on yet another aural adventure - one that I am lucky to escape from alive - and I see Dave heading for the railway station with a bag. “Can’t stop. I’m catching a train to Swansea!” He leers. The sun sparkles on the damp, gum studded paving stones as the train pulls in with a deafening screech of brakes, and for a moment I am reminded of Nikki Benson. Perhaps tonight’s singer won’t be quite so bad. I am wrong as usual. Ah well, I tell myself, that’s showbiz…
(c) Gary Robins 2009