October 2014

October 2014

Writings by the Say It Right Writers Circle themed around PUNK NON-FICTION: What Is Punk? – Ben Smith FICTION: Battle Jacket – Alan Marshall FICTION: Society Suckers – Phil Chokeword FICTION: Things Fall Apart – Ali H FICTION: The Departure – Orzak Bule

Find out more about the Say It Right Writers Circle: sayitrightwriterscircle.blogspot.com Get in contact: tensongspodcast@googlemail.com All work licensed under Creative Commons: Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs CC BY-NC-ND

What Is Punk?*

By Ben Smith I think I was 14 or 15 when I joined my first band. I can't even remember the exact circumstances. I used to live across the road from James the guitarist and at that time we would trade tapes of CD and records that we had bought. I had a Hohner rockwood P-bass copy, it was red, weighed an absolute tonne and the fret board felt about a foot wide. I remember buying a Selmer Treble 'n' bass 50 mk 2 off someone at school for ÂŁ10 and they built me a speaker cabinet for the cost of the parts. I was never quite happy with that amp and how it sounded and sold it for a lot more money 7 or 8 years later on ebay. Apparently according to the guy who bought it, it wasn't working properly.

The band used to practice fairly regularly in the local 'Lion' hall which I think cost us each a couple of quid per practice. I remember that we had a lot of songs, not much talent and plenty of enthusiasm. The full line up included Darren on drums, the other James on vocals and Alice on guitar occasionally. I think that James stopped turning up to practice after a while though as we didn't have any way of amplifying the vocals.

There was no access to a PA at all and we had no money to buy one and we always played far to loudly so that attempts to put the vocals through guitar amps never worked.

I do remember because of the lack of PA James videoing one of our practices as something to do. We must have looked an odd bunch. At the time I remember I used to dress in a tracksuit top, jeans and green adidas gazelles looking more like a reject from a Britpop band than a punk. I'm also pretty sure were were all trying to rebel against our parents by growing our hair, seeing how long we could get it before they insisted we had it cut. I have no idea where that video is now but the piece of footage that is stuck in my head is a part where I'm trying to play and jump in the air at the same time. I think I was getting about an inch off the floor due to the weight of my bass but in my head I was probably thinking I was Nicky Wire.

Musically we were definitely a punk band. A lack of ability to play our instruments clearly contributed to that but also the majority of the tapes we used to swap between ourselves were Epitaph and Fat Wreck punk bands. I think James and I were the kids in our friendship group who really got punk and used it to express ourselves. Being in that band gave us an outlet for our frustrations in life. It also gave us a couple of hours a week when we could be away from our parents, make a noise and have a laugh.

As a band we never played a gig although I think some of our friends came along to practice a couple of times. I can't remember either how we broke up, I think everyone became busy doing other things and so practices stopped being organised. When I look back being in that band had a positive effect on my life. It gave me confidence to give things a go and know that things don't have to be entirely perfect to still have merit or be fun. It also showed me that I could do things because I wanted to and I enjoyed doing them even if they resulted in no real meaningful output. From that foundation I would go on to play in bands all over the world, meet hundreds of people and was exposed to music, politics and philosophy I otherwise wouldn't have come across.

I don't know what punk is, I can't define it, but it made me who I am as a person and shaped my attitudes to life. It is much more than a few people making an awful noise in an empty hall in a rural village just because they want to but at the same time that perfectly exemplifies what it is.

*The Mr T Experience – 'What is punk?'

Battle Jacket

By Alan Marshall Heavy plastic doors flapped open as a gurney trolley was wheeled into the tiny mintgreen room. Mat looked down at the body from ceiling height for several minutes, silently urging it to move or wake up; until it finally dawned on him that he was looking at himself.

Was he dead? He didn’t think so, but neither could he remember how he came to be here – there. He looked old. Grey parchment skin filled the gaps between his rag-tag clothes. Scuffed black boots, tattered jeans – patched and repatched like stained Buddhist prayer flags – grubby knees poking through the holes, a limp Germs T-shirt, and his leather jacket – painted and studded until not an inch remained unscarred. A crushed green Mohawk lolled to one side and spread across the vinyl mattress in a starburst.

The doors opened noisily and two fresh-green hospital staff entered the room. The first was a ginger haired man, small and Scouse with a biro in his teeth and a clipboard. A petite woman with shining corn-rowed braids and an African lilt followed.

“Solvent abuse they think, that and booze. We need to strip him down for some ID and check for other injuries. He’s stable but unconscious. A lucky lad to still be here.

“I’m Ian by the way,” he stated.

“Happy,” replied the woman, “my name, it’s Happy.”

She rounded the trolley and stopped alongside Mat’s head “Hello my love, can you hear me?” she touched his cheek gently with the back of a latex- gloved hand. “We are going to make you comfortable, don’t worry.”

She tutted a tiny sympathetic noise and brushed a green soaped strand from Mat’s eyes.

“You want to start at the top and I’ll get his boots off?” Ian suggested, and hung his clipboard on the gurney frame. Mat gazed down at his limp form as they lifted and manoeuvred him like a bundle of rags, his belt and studs clicked and rapped against the metal bed.

How did things come to this, Mat pondered as he looked at his dark-ringed, unseeing eyes, so pale – like a broken bird? He used to be so full of passion, fighting for morals and justice, not some washed-out gluehead, nameless and friendless at the edge of life.

Happy prised his arms from the sleeves of his jacket and turned him to pull it out from underneath.“Goodness! It weighs a ton,” she said, sitting on the corner of the trolley to go through his pockets. Her fingers ran over the ranks of pointed studs covering both shoulders and the back.

“It is like medieval armour. Who is he keeping out?”

“Or in,” replied Ian pulling an unlaced steel-toed boot. He ticked a box on the form.

Happy turned Mat’s jacket, reading the badges and splashes of white graffiti amid the studs.

“So many symbols,” she tapped a circled A and a Crass badge, “and aggression – GBH, Chaos, Blitz,” she read, “It is sad for someone so young to be so scared.”

“Perhaps he’s not, perhaps he’s tough and everyone else should be scared? Armour isn’t just about defence you know, look at a tank,” he held up a tarnished bullet-belt and coiled it on the nearby chair.

“Maybe.” Happy replied, unconvinced. She busied herself in silence unzipping each pocket in turn and pulling out the contents. Amongst the loose change and till receipts she uncrumpled a gig flyer and read it.

“This is for a charity concert for animals,” she smiled slightly, “No; I think this young man is a scarecrow. The metal and war-paint keep us away, but inside he is soft as straw.”

Ian shrugged, “Found anything which tells us who he is?”

“Not yet,” she said and continued her work.

Mat watched from above and desperately tried to speak, but his jaw felt lashed with rubber bands. He was struck how fragile he looked without his jacket. Minutes later, he gazed down at his prone body, stripped to his T-shirt and boxer shorts, and the neat pile of folded rags and shrapnel to one side.

Ian ticked the last box on the form. “Good, at least there’s nothing else wrong with him that a good wash won’t sort out” “I think he will be OK,” Happy added, “He just needs to become comfortable with the man he looks like inside the armour plating. Whoever he is he has potential.”

Ian pulled his biro from between his teeth, and at the top of the form scribbled – PUNK. He hung the clipboard on the gurney and the doors flapped again as they left. Slowly, Mat drifted downwards.

Society Suckers

By Phil Chokeword I crawl out of bed, careful not to wake her, pop my medication, Amitriptyline on top of a sizable Tyskie hangover, think about sticking my dick in-between the equally sizable tits of Jo from work, wank into the sink, clean up, shower, grab the packed lunch packed the night before, look in on Sam, get in the Audi, think about the repayments, wince, sit in traffic, the radio tuned to a golden oldies station, stare into the mirror, straighten my tie, move forward a few feet, stick out my tongue, check my breath, move forward a few more feet, listen to the news, try to give a fuck, fail, move forward another few feet, excreta etcetera, every fucking day, like clockwork, I could catch the train but fuck public transport, it’s for failures who don’t know any better, I’d have to walk ten minutes at the other end when I can park right outside if the space is free, which it isn’t, drive ten minutes to find an empty one, some Eastern Europeanlooking cunt smiles at me as I park on the second go, count to ten, remember what the marriage counsellor said, think about how I’ve not fucked my wife in a year, but then think about how I’d never see Sam, think of my son growing up not knowing his dad, I unclench my fist, straighten my tie, blow my nose, grab my jacket and walk to the office, say hello to receptionist, she looks at me like I’m a cunt, I came on to her once, shortly after Sam was born, I wasn’t thinking straight, felt trapped, am trapped, mortgage, car loan, kid, sexless joyless pointless hopeless marriage, overdraft, fuck, don’t think about it, grab a tea, my usual Nike mug, Just Do It, a motivational slogan and an accusation, yeah right, best crack on, log in, check my emails, endless shit, endless endless shit, pick at dried emulsion under my nails, straighten my tie, make a coffee, eat prawn sandwiches, flick through the Sun, stare at page 3, day dream of Jo’s tits, try not to day dream of Jo’s tits, wonder if anyone can tell that I’m dreaming of Jo’s tits, look at my pay check, look at the Telegraph, read about how my taxes go on paying for cunts like that cunt in the car park, should have smacked up the cunt, maybe he’d go home and free up a job for someone born here, though if I put him in hospital, it’d be the NHS, my taxes, paying for the cunt to get better, they gotcha by the balls either way, motherfucking traitor politician cunts, endless emails, answer one, two arrive, endless emails, endless shit, leave work, pick up a four pack of Zywiec, hit rush hour, just want to be home and to see my son, grid locked, stuck in an expensive tin box, take off my tie, look in the mirror, crows feet, “laughter” lines, same golden oldies, day dream of getting out the car, just parking up, leave my phone, my wallet, just walk off, it’s a reoccurring one that one, suicide fantasies without the actual act, an exit but not the final exit, wonder how many other poor cunts sat in traffic are feeling the same, watch as a cyclist waves in between cars, think about opening my door as he passes, seeing him knocked off, bouncing across the bonnet of the car next to me, face scraping the concrete, stupid tattoos pulped to a bloody mess, don’t do it of course, but I could, easily, if it wasn’t for Sam, traffic starts to move again, I don’t wonder how I got here, I know how I got here, did what I was supposed to do, did what I was told would make me happy, school, career, marriage, mortgage, child, credit, debt, death, never even thought about it, wasn’t ever one of those right on cunts, wankers with nose rings and stupid hair who wanted to save the world, lazy attention seekers, non-starters, see where that gets you, see how happy you end up, cunt, park up, sit in the car, watch her from the driver’s seat, watch her carry my son around the living room, he’s probably crying, fucking screaming, I don’t get out, look in the mirror, run my fingers through my hair, stick out my tongue, smell my breath, crows feet, halitosis, the radio, Anytime you want to you can turn me onto/Anything you want to/Anytime at all, I leave the car, run my hand over the bonnet, feel the warmth of the engine, I can’t get out.

Things Fall Apart

By Ali H ‘Things never just end they always fall apart’ – Maggy Van Eijk November, 1999.

‘Fuck me, it’s beautiful!’ He shouts at the sky and lies back on the pavement, catching streetlight on cheekbone. He lights a rollie. I watch him make snow angels and laugh smoke into the cold, black air. It hangs above him for a while before drifting away towards the college walls. His hair is wet with melted snow; little rivulets make their way down his neck to the collar of his fake leather jacket and then disappear behind it.

The world around us is quiet and orange; completely unmoving except for the falling snow. The college spires reach up in to the darkness and the shop front windows reflect them back to us. On the arm of a bench I notice a starling, head tucked into its puffedout feathers, moisture twinkling on the bridge of its beak.

My heart is beating warmly in my chest. My whole body is beating in time with my heart beating warmly in my chest. I am so high and I can see it all so exquisitely clearly; the snow falling, the rivulets dripping, the moisture twinkling.

I turn to watch him grinning and whispering made-up words at the sky. Every so often he sticks his tongue out to catch a snow flake and takes another drag. His pupils are huge and dark, his jeans are soaking. His black-clothed body contrasts satisfyingly against the white snow. This is only the second time I have met Blake and I am already in awe.

March, 2000.

It’s grey and stormy outside. The rain batters the little window in my attic room, rattling it aggressively in its frame. Somewhere in the distance a car alarm sounds out through the rain. Inside is warm and sleepy. De La Soul is on the record player and a wall-full of plastic fairy lights turn the room shades of industrial rainbow.

Blake is lying on my bedroom floor, studiously drawing moustaches and spots on all the celebrities in my most recent copy of Mix Mag. I haven’t seen or heard from him for weeks, though I know where he’s been. He has turned up just as I am going to bed; soaked through, half-drunk, full of mad stories about girls he’s been sleeping with. He has bleached his hair recently and it has curled in the rain, an aura of frizz lit up by the lights behind him. He is still wearing the same huge black jumper he was wearing last week, with holes chewed in the sleeves. He looks small and tired and drawn.

‘Would you rather shag Jarvis Cocker or listen to the Lighthouse Family on repeat for an entire week?’

He lights a spliff, looks at me closely and then laughs. ‘And no, you can’t choose both.

Pervert.’

I throw the pen I’ve been writing with at him and feign offense, then watch him draw his best attempt at a naked Jarvis Cocker on the front of my magazine.

Blake is the first real friend I’ve ever had. We are so different that we intrigue each other. I love his chaos; he is amused by my cautiousness. He listens to Crass; I like Paul Simon. He makes me feel excited about the world; I think I make him feel safe.

July, 2003.

July has been swallowed up by a heatwave. The lawns in the front gardens on our street are browning and the neighbours complain constantly about the hosepipe ban. The air is heavy and the streets are quiet. Some days the pavement is too hot to walk on with bare feet.

Back from university for a long summer, I sit in a striped deckchair out the front shelling garden peas for my mum. I see him before he sees me. He is walking with his headphones in, reading a book so closely that he seems unaware of anything else. His hair is shorter now, his shoulders broader. I smile to see that, even in the heat, he is still head-to-toe in black.

When he nears our house he glances in the direction of the attic, as if out of habit. By the time he sees me, my mouth has gone dry. We both take each other in for a second.

‘Wow. Long time.’ He says eventually, approaching our gate but not coming through.

‘I know, it’s been ages! Like almost three years.’ My voice is tight and insincere.

‘Back for the summer?’ He smiles politely, ‘how’s uni?’

‘Great, yeah, amazing.’ I fiddle with the peas I have already shelled, watch my fingers disappear into the greenness.

‘Cool’ he pauses and looks at me carefully for a moment before turning towards the road, ‘well I better get to work.’

I nod and do my best to look easy going. ‘Yeah. Great to see you,' I say weakly. 'Take care.’

The Departure

By Orzak Bule I asked if someone could pass my bag from under the table, but my mumbled request clashed with the fragmentary sound check (or had the band started, I never know) and no one understood me. So I went behind the table myself, double checking the bag was full. In the distance I heard drinks clattering off the pool table, people laughing hysterically outside and footsteps from above the ceiling. I asked the promoter which bands was on next. He knew nothing and had heard nothing.

The place had changed since I’d first come here for a Halloween show seven years ago (I wore a Frankenstein mask to get in for a pound cheaper, but I didn’t take it off until February). At first I thought the change was symbolic. People had aged, scenesters had deserted. My appearances are so infrequent that old friends feel I’ve already dropped out. Ten years ago one could seamlessly drift away from a scene, now we are either cut off completely or linger on-online. I’ve already been unambiguously unfriended by people who make small talk tonight. Still, the place had changed. It wasn’t that the hope and spirit had faded, but that the new hope and spirit wasn’t mine. It didn’t interest me.

But I realised the change was more prosaic. It was the smell.

The room stank of stale beer, disinfectant and the vomitus that the disinfectant was trying to hide. The smell stuck to us in the same way that our shoes stuck to the floor with every step. And in the same way that, seven years ago, the smell of cigarette smoke would follow us home, still filling the bedroom the next day until last night’s wardrobe was dumped in the wash.

I had spent the evening tidying up. Putting empty bottles in the bin and peeling discarded flyers off the floor. I didn’t have a zine to sell. This was a way of avoiding small talk but it was also a way to undermine the new faces who seemed to fit in more than I ever did. It was my way of saying ‘this is my scene, I belong here more than you ever will’. But I don’t think anyone noticed me.

I was leaving before the last band, as had become my habit. I started by just staying to hear two or three songs from the headliners. Later I convinced myself that if I heard at least thirty seconds then I could say I’d been there. Eventually, I left before I arrived.

Two years later I was to leave before Leonard Cohen played at a festival in Finsbury Park on the pretext that it was drizzling. On the night of the departure I believed that this was a symptom of my disenchantment with the scene, but it will later to emerge to be the onset of a pernicious social anxiety.

At the door a friend stops me and asks me where I’m going. ‘I don’t know’, I said ‘Just out of here, just out of here. Out of here, nothing else’. ‘Err, OK’ he replied.