NO HANDS ZINE #22
PHOTO: ‘Rawson Square’ by @godspeedjon77
PICK ME I’M FREE
WWW.NOHANDSBRADFORD.CO.UK Design & Layout — www.bjthebear.com
I (‘M GLAD NOT TO HAVE) SHOT J*R By Andy Abbott
I moved to Leeds with some friends in 1999. We were all from a smaller town in Derbyshire called Matlock. In Matlock we had been playing in various bands since we were 15 or so, but had kept at our most recent, ‘Viagra’, for over a year and even managed to play some out of town gigs. We felt that full-time education had hindered our impending success and heard that in Leeds there was a great music scene for the type of alternative rock/punk we were playing. The plan was that we would all live together and work shit jobs. “That way it’s only 9 – 5”, “There’s no coursework deadlines, homework or revision”, I remember reasoning. In the Utopia that was Leeds we would be able to properly concentrate on our band and advance from playing the self-organised gigs in function rooms of little pubs and community halls that we were used to in Matlock. We were massively wrong on two counts. First, we hadn’t realised that working in factories, warehouses and call centres, meat-packing or shelf-stacking at night in Supermarkets, was full-on knackering and would leave us bereft of the creative energy necessary to do a band. Second, and more positively, there was no need to advance from the DIY approach to gigs. This was confirmed to me at one of the first I attended after arriving, at the Royal Park Cellars. The headline act escapes me, but there were two local bands on the bill that proved to me that the most exciting music was going off not in cavernous purposebuilt venues and arenas, but in very similar environments to those which we had so wanted t o escape from in Matlock. The first was a band called Diesel vs Steam who played what I remember at the time as being a very strange strain of funk with an amazing rhythm section and a trumpet player. As a bassist myself I was fixated with the low-end and was dazzled by the bass player’s smooth style. Luckily for me, and you, my memory of them as a weird funk band can be corrected by listening to their (unreleased?) demo which you can get from here: www.sendspace.com/file/54laib The band that really got me frothing at the time though was J*R. They were a three piece who I assumed were from Leeds but as it turned out were from the closer-to-home environs of South Yorkshire but who, like us, had moved North to get involved in Leeds 6. Also, they seemed to have a penchant for Touch and Go Records bands like Girls Against Boys, The Jesus Lizard and Shellac who I was currently digging very much. In fact the super dirty bass (courtesy of Matt Dale, later of
Humanfly), utterly pummelling drums (Mick Lee), scratchy guitar and squealing vocals (Rob Che) sounded to me like a real-life version of the music I had thought only existed in some far away land and that I’d missed out on by a number of years. Here it was being smashed out in a crappy little gig room at the bottom of an unassuming pub here and now! I picked up a copy of their self-released CD ‘the magic of..’ shortly after and when it came to the time of putting on gigs in Leeds a year or so later they were our first port of call. We found out through this that they were also absolutely cracking lads so when it came to going out on tour with our band Kill Yourself and releasing a record we shared the experience with them, putting out the first Obscene Baby Auction release as a split 7-inch with comic which you can download a rip of here: www.obscenebabyauction.co.uk
Live, J*R were always entertaining. Aside from the huge sound mostly amassed by the (still, in my opinion) rarely bettered rhythm section, Rob had excellent between-song-banter and – we came to realise later - a penchant for removing his clothes and colouring his cock in with a marker pen. We shared a few more gigs and record appearances together as the J*R and Kill Yourself combo, getting in to scrapes with the law, getting misspelled and misheard nicknames, getting down to our pants at other people’s gigs, and getting farmers in Hereford to come out of the closet. J*R resurfaced a year or so ago with a gig in Sheffield at The Grapes (the site of one-and-only non-Derbyshire Viagra gig many moons before) and an appearance at Out of Spite Festival in Leeds. Both those gigs served as a reminder of that genuinely life-changing gig at The Royal Park which, had I missed, I might not still be playing shitty function rooms of pubs with noisy rock bands today. It gave me an insight into the unparalleled excitement generated by – and the authentic connection that can be felt with - music done for love-not-money, and the meaningful friendships, ideas and critical approaches that it opens out on to. Cheers lads!
MULLETS WITH SOUL by Dominic Sheard
There were a variety of haircuts in the St Bede’s 6th form common room in 1988. Mullet, plaits, half-shaved, indie-jack-fringe-over-eyes; all denoting an interest in left of centre guitar based bands. Mine was the mullet. As mine was the Maiden, Metallica, Megadeth and other metal bands beginning with “M.” Then someone put a tape of Soul II Soul’s “Club Classics vol. one” in my hands. It was doing the rounds and had a bit of an underground reputation at the time. I should have hated it. It was slow, it was soulful, it was smooth and it didn’t begin with an “M.” But it did make a noise that connected deep within my heart and soul. From Caron Wheeler’s gorgeous vocals to the head nodding, infectious signature beats it stood out as something new, fresh and of pure quality. Minimal, masterful and majestic.
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“A happy face, a thumpin’ bass, for a lovin’ race.”
LOST BRADFORD NIGHTS: RONKAS 1998-2001 By Richard Brass
“Ronka” is defined in the Urban Dictionary as a person who is ruff (possibly from a council estate) and quite loud and badly behaved. I think the subtlety and broad nature of the term has been lost in translation. A “ronka” to us might have been a person who encompasses any, or all of the following: daft, eccentric, foolish, pisshead, slow, a bit funny, odd, sartorially challenged. I could say that the Ronkas ethos embraced some of the more irreverent elements of working class culture, the flyer imagery by turns championing a local Woolboard workmate superimposed on a packet of Berkeley fags, Chas ‘n’ Dave, a rudely annotated Pac Man, a Tramp wi sick in his hair... but then who wants an ex-student tosser analysing the past, didn’t think so. Let’s jog on. The Ronkas empire began on the 23rd May 1998 as Ronkas Delight. The aim: to provide mates and fellow ronkas with the best in underground dance music. The venue: The Beehive Cellar. The Music: well the djs were influenced by club nights in Leeds like Back to Basics and The Orbit. There was nowt like that in Bradford. A motley crew of locals they featured ex-Tumblers djs, PCR radio stars (ahem) and superstar bedroom djs. You might hear uncompromising techno by Underground Resistance, Robert Hood, Jeff Mills, or classic NY and Chicago house like Masters at Work, Cajmere or Glenn Underground. Of course there had to be an irreverent element at work and Gay Phillipe (the dj name lovingly coined on PCR by his charming pals) often provided that, going from the sublime
Thanks to Phil, Dave, Jamie, Will, Matthew, Spencer and Luke for their perhaps unsurprisingly scattered recollections.
Rockers Hi-Fi – Push Push to the ridiculous Like A Tim – Legs (ZZ Top cover, ouch). Alongside Gay Phillipe could be found such luminaries as The Big D.O. surprisingly not in fact a Compton ex-pat as the name might suggest, but a Fairweather Green lad with a Fiat Panda in which the enterprising band went out flypostering. Then there was Nobby, Dj Sutty and Dj Brassy, I don’t think a great deal of effort went into choosing dj names to be fair and in fact the dj names were dropped by Christmas of the same year in favour of the all encompassing Ronkas Delight. If you dj’ed you were a ronka and that was it. The Beehive nights were great fun, money was rarely made, but that wasn’t really the driving force. A chaotic, skuzzy cellar, dead rats in the girls toilet, Ayingerbrau fuelled mayhem, the lack of professionalism borne out at the door where inevitably whoever was watching it was pissed. In fact Gay Phillipe was so ratted on cider one time that a paying customer saw him tumble from his stool with his cash in hand and was heard to mutter “I’m fucked if I’m off in here” grabbed the cash off the fallen ronka and headed back out the door. The dancefloor saw plenty of action, not always traditional, a tired and emotional ronka girlfriend one night made her bed on the dancefloor with dancers carefully making their way around her sleeping figure; an impromptu breakdancing episode one time (Bradford style) saw shoes flying dangerously across the floor. One memorable Ronka evening didn’t even start as a Ronkas
event. William of the Beehive had requested the Ronka djs to dj for a girls birthday party that had been booked in the Beehive Cellar Bar. Underground House music was apparently not what the girl expected and herself and student mates were nattering for 80s stuff like the Thompson Twins and Rick Astley. Perhaps there was a sense of irony in their requests but it was like a red rag to a bull, with Dj Sutty sent back to Clayton to pick out the finest Now Compilations and other unholy 80s classics. A bit of Wham Rap set the party alight but before long a merciless piss take was underway with Black Lace – Superman followed by a mix of Chas n Dave - Rabbit, Roland Rats – Rat Rapping and Kevin the Gerbils – Pink Bucket. The party guests left sometime after and a full on Ronkas party then ensued with everyone seeming to steam down and packing the place out. Another great night occurred when a Wedding Reception upstairs spilled down into the cellar and tentatively checked out the scene. It was the summer of the Mitsubishi and they’d filtered through into Bradford and the Ronkas event. It was funny to see wedding guests even the bridegroom buzzing on the dancefloor and with massive smiles quite sincerely announce that we’d made their night.
Ronkas was on the move though, and by 1999 had taken over the Love Apple for one Saturday night only, with a name change to Ronkas Revenge. That first night was rammed with a one in, one out policy on the door. The music had changed a
bit reflecting the dj’s tastes with a big Derrick Carter influence, Basement Jaxx also being at the forefront but still an injection of Detroit Techno such as Red Planet filtered through. The back room was taken up with a more eclectic mix of Electro, Beastie Boys. New Order etc. In a move that was to sum up much of the Love Apple experience, Pav (Love Apple boss) decided that Friday Nights would be better and it was never quite so packed again. But worse was to come when a big ‘Ronkas Recover’ night after the Millenium eve (with Crazy Penis booked to play) was cancelled without even a phone call. We found out via a mate who said Pav had told him to tell us, classy!
IT TURNED OUT THAT ONE ESPECIAL RONKA, SAT ON A LONG COUCH FULL OF PRETTY GIRLS HAD TAKEN A SWIG OF WHISKY, GIPPED AND HANDS TO MOUTH TRIED TO EVACUATE. BUT THE CROWDED ROOM, MADE ESCAPE DIFFICULT AND HOT WHISKY BILE HAD ERUPTED FORTH, SPRAYED THROUGH HIS FINGERS, SHOWERING THE COUCH AND GIRLS. THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE LEFT SOON AFTER. The end of Ronkas was nigh, but not without one final foray. 2001 saw the Ronkas Return (name change again) to the Sound Gallery (student union bar). This time with the previously promised Crazy Penis coming to play live. Some publicity was garnered by getting one ronkas dj’ing cat into the T&A. Yes, Jesus the cat, genuine feline, genuine name, had a penchant for scratching on the decks and featured in the T&A under the headline of Catboy Slim (hmmm). The event was ace and at the end it was announced that the party would continue back at a ronkas house where Catboy Slim could be found. It turned out to be an amazing house party with the beautiful people who came along with, or to see Crazy P coming back to Girlington with us ronkas. I recall going upstairs as the front room was rammed and coming down much later to a rather more familiar sight of the same old ronkas, chatting, smoking, laughing. Where had all the beautiful people gone? It turned out that one especial ronka, sat on a long couch full of pretty girls had taken a swig of whisky, gipped and hands to mouth tried to evacuate. But the crowded room, made escape difficult and hot whisky bile had erupted forth, sprayed through his fingers, showering the couch and girls. The beautiful people left soon after. And there endeth the Ronkas epoch. And yet Ronkas lives on still. There are ronkas in your midst, indeed there are time to time original ronka djs at No Hands, and ronkas on the dancefloor. Bradford spawns plenty of ronkas and we were proud to count ourselves as their heralds for a moment in time.
The Ronkas.
WE DON’T KNOW AN ADAM
A short story by John Joseph Holmes
She turns, exhales. Speaks in her sleep. ‘Adam,’ she says. But Win doesn’t wake her. No sense to be made at this hour. He resumes his page but cannot concentrate now. He sits a while and then reaches over to her nightstand. She is silent except for distant, stifled breathing. With one hand he unhooks her phone from its dock. It is late but he is lucid enough to switch it to silent. Who’s Adam? He scrolls her phonebook, her message inbox. We don’t know an Adam. A message from Angela reads: hi Lucy, 12:15? He cannot find a reply to the text. Wine. This is dry white wine, he tells himself. God, what is wrong with him? He can never just be happy. Even when things are perfect. Diffident and shamefaced, he replaces Lucy’s phone and switches out his lamp. In the morning, Lucy is already downstairs when he wakes. The phone dock is empty. Adam, he remembers, before thinking of anything else at all. Then he rubs his eyes, shakes numbness from his head and climbs out of bed. Downstairs, coffee and cigarette smoke billows from the kitchen. Lucy looks hung-over, though they only drank a bottle between them. The portable TV is firing out news about Syria. ‘Thousands have now perished since the uprising began in March of last year…’ ‘Morning,’ says Win. ‘Is it?’ Lucy yawns. ‘Sleep okay?’
Lucy doesn’t reply. She stands to get more coffee, as though this is the most ridiculous question Win could have asked. After another cup she says, ‘I’m going to take a shower.’ The ceiling groans as Lucy walks around upstairs. Win has learned to correlate these sounds with the partition of each room. He listens as she goes into the bathroom, out again and back into their bedroom. He thinks about her phone. He cannot see it anywhere in the kitchen. He wonders again if he knows an Adam. Even though she was unconscious it is odd to Win that Lucy spoke this word aloud, yet has not acted guilty or awkward in front of him. He thinks about her being fucked by Adam in their hatchback. He decides he will look for footprints on the windows. He can hear the shower-water scattering into the bath. Its different pitches as Lucy moves around in its spray. ‘Who the fuck is Adam,’ he shouts, knowing she won’t hear. ‘… Stay with us for more on the fight for Aleppo.’ The news anchor is a bronze-haired woman Win has always found attractive. He wonders for a moment what it would be like to have sex with her on the news desk on live television. He walks to the window. In the garden the grass is long and glints like frosted razors gathered upright. It has been so long since summer, when Lucy had short hair and Win taught secondary English to young college students sitting retakes.
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NEXT TIME Friday 30 November 2012 Remember, No Hands & This Obscene Baby Auction is always the last Friday of Every Month at The Polish Club, Bradford. Bringing you Live Music Upstairs, DJs Downstairs in a humble friendly atmosphere with a cheap bar.
We do this for Love-Not-Money
8PM — 2AM
FRI 26 OCT POLISH CLUB BRADFORD
JUST £2 ENTRY FOR BANDS UPSTAIRS FREE DOWNSTAIRS FROM 8PM FREE ZINE + DJS + DANCING TIL 2AM