The Last Days of Disco (8 page)

Aneka's ‘Japanese Boy' segued awkwardly into the end of The Piranhas' ‘Tom Hark' single. The dancing queens went mental again, and the fledgling DJs debated Frank King's earlier outburst. It allowed them to avoid dealing with the impending microphone conundrum.

‘Thank fuck ye got rid ae Eddie fuckin' Cochran there. Whit a prick!' said Joey.

‘Whit wis he sayin' tae ye at the beginning? Ah wisnae listenin'.' Bobby admitted.

‘Some bollocks aboot Shakin' Stevens bein' total shite,' said Joey. ‘Ah'm fuckin'
agreein'
wi' him an' he calls me “a cheeky wee cunt”.'

‘Ach, he's away noo. He'll no be back. It'll be fine.' Bobby turned to face Joey. Joey knew why.

‘Ah canny dae it. Ah'm fuckin' shitin' it,' said Bobby

‘Fuckin' hell, Boab. This was aw your idea. An' it's fuckin' mobbed in here. Ah canny dae it either.'

This to-and-fro went on for a while before Bobby, and then Joey looked at Hamish.

‘Naw,' he laughed, and then stopped when he realised they were serious. ‘
Naw
! Nae fuckin' way, man. Are you two radio rental?'

‘C'mon Hammy … there's another pint in it for ye!' Bobby knew the time was coming when somebody would
have
to speak – if for no other reason than to call for order while the cake was cut.

‘Yer havin' a fuckin' laugh, the two ae ye'se,' protested Hamish.

Lizzie King came over. Her mood clearly hadn't improved.

‘Can ye play a dedication for ma Mam? Squeeze. ‘Up The Junction'? Have ye got it?'

‘Eh, aye. I'll put it on next, eh?' said Bobby. He looked at this stern faced vision of loveliness, with her blonde hair all backcombed and
Silvikrinned
in place.
Like Farah Fawcett-Majors, but with darker roots,
he thought to himself. Deep-red lipstick, smudged from kissing people and being kissed. Dark, vibrant eye-shadow and thick eyeliner. Heavy blusher. Bobby had had a few pints, it was true, but he definitely fancied her.

‘Make sure ye say that it's fae me?' With that, she turned sharply and walked back, impressive arse in those taut jeans, legwarmers down to her white high heels, green string vest-top over tight white T-shirt. Bobby was mesmerised.

‘Fuck, Boab. Fuckin' wake up!' said Joey. ‘Somebody needs tae fuckin' speak over this next record. Hammy, you'll need tae dae it. You've had more tae drink than us.'

Hamish drew several deep breaths between gritted teeth. ‘Aw for fuck's sake. Ah'm only sayin' one line. This is gonnae cost ye more
than a pint, ya pair ae fuckin' bampots. Gies it!' Hamish moved to the side of the lighting cabinet and took the microphone from Joey.

‘Whit's her name again?' Hamish groaned.

‘It's Lizzie. Right, ye ready? Ah'm fading it down.' Joey nodded to Hamish and for a brief time – although it seemed like an age – there was comparative silence. Only Hamish's hasty, anxious words – but expressed without the required amplification. Joey pushed the fader up and the familiar drum-pattern start of ‘Up The Junction' had the momentarily bemused dancers going again. Lizzie King looked over expectantly.

‘Ye need tae fuckin' switch it on,' said Bobby. ‘Right. Ye ready
this
time?'

Hamish looked at the mic. There was a small switch halfway up its length. He pressed it. A bang. A blue flash. A high-pitched shriek.

And then the still unamplified but now perfectly audible, ‘Ah!
Ya fuckin' bastart hoor, ye
!'

The flash had thrown Hamish backwards and he'd fallen against a table, knocking it – and the drinks it was supporting – onto the dancefloor. The mic itself had been projected high into the air and had come down on top of a speaker, knocking over Hamish's pint of lager, spraying the contents into the larger of the two record boxes. Amazingly, Squeeze played on, even if the dancers were now motionless. Bobby quickly pulled another record randomly from the small box and stuck it on just in time.

‘
There's an old piano and they play it hot behind the green door …'

In the hour since Bobby had called his dad, there had been no vehicles travelling up the one-way street towards the end where the Sandriane was located. It was now pretty clear that Barry Baird wouldn't be returning, and, in the final act before locking up, Bobby had been granted access to the office phone. They were helpless.
There was too much stuff to carry and they were miles away from anywhere they could've carried it to. Bobby had regretted not asking if they could've left the gear and returned for it the next day. But, in the mêlée of the party's culmination, he hadn't been thinking straight.

It had been an expensive night: the unforeseen costs of the Barry Baird twenty quid, added to a fiver to Hamish May for a taxi to A&E, on top of Lizzie's deductions.

‘If ye think ah'm payin' ye full whack for
that
! Ye were late! Ye only had about three fuckin' records … an' ah had tae fuckin' sing “Happy Birthday” tae maself cos' ye'd nae bastardin' microphone!'

Bobby had to concede that all of the above was true, although there were slightly more than three records. Hamish May's pint spill had rendered many of the better ones unusable and – since Shaky had gone down so well earlier – Bobby had elected to rotate a few of the more popular ones from the same genre.

‘Jesus Christ, Boab. Darts, Showaddywaddy and that hopeless Welsh cunt! It was like a fuckin' rockabilly convention at one point.' Joey's moaning had eventually made both of them laugh, as they sat out in the street, minding the junk, like Steptoe & Son waiting for their horse and cart.

‘Ah didnae want tae laugh at the time, but did ye see that sausage roll hittin' Hammy right in the coupon when ah wis helpin' him out tae the taxi?'

‘Naw,' replied Joey, trying to conceal his laughter. ‘Ah wis gettin' hassled by that lassie's faither. Tellin' me tae stop playin' Shakin' Stevens because it's an affront tae Elvis.' Bobby was now bent over, convulsing with laughter.
‘“Elvis is deid”
ah says tae him. “Right. Fuckin' outside …
now
!” he shouts at me!'

Tears are rolling down Bobby Cassidy's face. ‘Fuck sake. Whit a night! Whit was the damage then?'

‘Ah reckon a hundred and ten,' said Bobby wiping his face. ‘Possibly more if ah have tae gie this new driver guy cash tonight.'

‘Fuckin' hell, Boab. No really worth it, is it?' Joey had already
resigned himself to this being Heatwave's one and only outing.

‘Ye jokin'? Ah thought it was brilliant!'

Joey turned round to face his friend, with a look of astonishment on his face.

‘See that bit where they were aw' up dancin' and singin' tae “One Step Beyond”?' Bobby paused. ‘… Or “Do The Hucklebuck”?' He could see the look on Joey's face slowly changing. ‘… Or even the slow dances?'

Joey had to concede that these few moments were actually quite good. He'd felt the power a DJ has over a crowd at those times. He'd sensed the anticipation people had about what record might come next – and the fleeting feeling of the music building an atmosphere. He'd also seen the effect of the slow songs at the end and, in particular, the reaction to ‘Tracks of My Tears'
,
which he had picked out to be the last song before they had even left Bobby's house. It must have had a calming effect on Lizzie King, too, as there she was, on her eighteenth birthday, conciliatory tongue down Bobby Cassidy's throat as part of a deal struck whereby she'd pay him only £10. All those other
Brylcreemed
heads resting drunkenly on shoulder pads – wide enough to support a team of abseilers. The music had them entranced. They were like the ponderous and desperate participants in
They Shoot Horses, Don't They?,
but due to the classic soundtrack, it was the evening's undisputed highlight.

Maybe Bobby was right. Maybe this would be a good laugh … eventually. And just as Joey Miller and Bobby Cassidy talked themselves into giving it another go, headlights illuminated the bottom of John Finnie Street. Salvation had arrived in the distinctive form of Jimmy Stevenson: newly out of prison and one of the more than three million unemployed, but, tonight, riding to the rescue in a beige 1972 Volkswagen Campervan.

Llew Gardner, journalist for Thames TV

‘Prime Minister, can I ask you something? Will we ever return to full employment, Prime Minister? What was known as full employment?'

Mrs Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister

‘I don't know. It depends on your definition of full employment.'

6

THE THREE BEFORE EIGHT

Jimmy Stevenson was there on the night Bobby Cassidy’s dreams of being a DJ were born.

Having had his musical interest ignited by punk, Bobby found a true home in the Mod revival of the late ’70s. For Bobby – who also harboured a secret desire to be Rod Stewart – punk rock had always had that short-burning fuse feel about it. A clearing of the old, safe, boring prog-rock decks for something new, fresh and accessible. Bobby eventually discovered the latter of these attributes in The Jam. He developed an interest in the clothes, in the Mod iconography, in Quadrophenia; and in that whole sense of belonging – which he shared with Joey Miller and thousands of others across Britain. It all began with
All Mod Cons
, Bobby’s favourite LP. Bobby and Joey knew of many other friends who were similarly affected. A small local scene was developing. It was at odds with the pub-rock culture populated by Ayrshire groups like Penetration and the biker fans that followed them. They were generally older, definitely smellier and wouldn’t be featuring as a target demographic for any aspiring hairdressers.

Bobby recalled his dad once telling Gary – who preferred bands like Focus and Black Sabbath – that to become part of a biker gang
you had to shit in your pants and not change them for a week. He delivered this assertion with an authority that persuaded Bobby his dad had once tried, but probably given up around day five. It wasn’t for Bobby, though, and the Kilmarnock Mods with their scooter club became his spiritual home. The re-emergence of scooters, parkas and target T-shirts began with Paul Weller and his obsession with the look and sound of the Small Faces – and the power and energy of older records like The Who’s ‘My Generation’. It made everyone want to be in a gang, and to go to the weekly all-nighter at Wigan Casino.

Wigan Casino was a
Mecca
for young fledgling Mods intent on gorging themselves on influences from before they were born. Although the Kilmarnock Mods had heard of other venues, like the Blackpool Highland Rooms, the Casino was where they all wanted to be. By 1981, its peak years were well behind it, but it was still accepted as the primary venue for Northern Soul music. It was open all night – closing just after eight a.m. – and, most importantly for kids like Bobby and Joey, sixteen-year-olds could get in, as the club was alcohol-free.

When the plans to go were finally put in place and a date set, Joey pulled out. He’d been having a tough time at home and his parents were on the verge of splitting up. Bobby went with around twelve other friends.

Bobby’s preconceptions of Wigan were from George Orwell’s book
The Road to Wigan Pier
, which was a set text for his English O-level class. Wigan itself was nothing like the Wigan Bobby had anticipated from Orwell’s text. It was very similar to the Kilmarnock of the early ’80s that they’d left behind. Dull, grey concrete and monotonous low-rise red brick dominated and intimidated more expressive buildings from an earlier age. The small Northern towns that they stopped at or passed by on the road to Wigan seemed to share these features. They had a
grime
that seemed somehow intoxicating to Bobby. Not in a glamorous way, certainly, but this journey gave birth to his passion for the North of England and its back catalogue of literary and artistic achievements.

The journey down was pretty uneventful. Thirteen people in a
hippyish
van, owned and driven by Jimmy Stevenson, an old friend of his dad, Harry. Jimmy was five foot four; in his mid-fifties, he looked a decade older. He appeared to be in some degree of proportion from the rear, but from side and front he looked pregnant. A mass of belly cantilevered precariously over the belt of his flared Farah slacks. The flares themselves partially concealed brown shoes that resembled the meat pasties sold in Greggs bakery. He had a penchant for sleeveless cardigans, and the green one he was wearing was fighting a technicolor battle with a blue-and-purple checked shirt at which countless Scotsport presenters would’ve turned up their noses. His most defining characteristic was his hair – part Charlton sweep-over, part Oliver Cromwell bell-shaped bob. A rusty, ginger-coloured moustache sat below beady eyes and above a large mouth from which the coarsest Ayrshire dialect emanated.

Jimmy’s cramped van left Kilmarnock just after seven at night, aiming to get to the casino before midnight. Jimmy acceded to the demands of his short-term employers and permitted the tapes of Mod classics to soundtrack the journey. In the back, Tennent’s lager, Bacardi and speed were concealed in various bags, and their consumption was slow to begin with, gradually increasing towards the border and becoming voracious as they approached Wigan. Consequently, Bobby was absolutely buzzing when the group reached the old Empress Ballroom building. Jimmy parked the van in an open yard next to the entrance to a multi-storey concrete monstrosity. He planned to sleep while the Kilmarnock Mods were in the casino, driving back the next morning. The group approached the queues stretching around the corner of Compton Street, and it was around forty-five minutes before Bobby actually got into the building. The bouncers at the door were operating a confusing policy of letting three in and turning the fourth away.

Bobby couldn’t determine any rhyme or reason for this quota, and there was certainly no explanation being offered to the vanquished. The Ayrshire contingent faired reasonably well out of
this lottery, and only two were refused. Bobby saw them inside later and assumed they had gone back to the end of the queue, praying that the random sequencing would be kind to them. Once in, most of the herd around Bobby climbed the two flights of stairs to enter at the balcony level. From here, Bobby got his first glimpse of the sheer scale of the hall. As a structure, the casino was clearly on its last legs, but the free-spanning curved roof over the old ballroom, containing the biggest and bounciest dancefloor he’d ever seen, was incredible.

At the beginning of the night, the vibe was relatively loose, and the musical choices of legendary DJ Russ Winstanley created large open spaces in the main dancefloor. The lights were generally non-existent and the interior could only really be described as seedy. Bobby briefly wondered whether all that anticipatory excitement had been worth it. But, following the first hour, the atmosphere ramped up dramatically. The music got louder and faster. The energy palpably increased. It was dark – and getting darker. The very few lights were dimmed. The condensation level was astounding, but it was the music and the dancing that marked Bobby in a way he’d never, ever forget. This was the origin of the dream. Once it got going, Winstanley had complete control of the dancers via the music he was playing. He was like a puppeteer high up on the stage, operating everybody by strings.

Bobby watched rapt, as skinny guys in vests and thirty-inch flares danced alone, constantly spinning and kicking Bruce Lee’s kung fu moves to music rich in soulful grooves. Bobby had taken a few pills in the van on the way down but he began to feel that he didn’t need them. It was euphoric. The music seemed to ferment during the evening, becoming richer, stronger and louder as night became morning. There was so much great stuff, Bobby later told Joey, that only a few songs really stood out. Mary Love’s ‘You Turned My Bitter into Sweet’ had Bobby up dancing with a pleat-skirted girl from Bolton called Norma. Dobie Gray’s ‘Out on the Floor’ had him spiralling away on his own, but inconspicuously, for
fear of drawing too much attention. He heard the original Gloria Jones recording of ‘Tainted Love’ (which would become one of the first records bought by Bobby as a DJ, the following year, when re-recorded by Soft Cell). The famous ‘3 before 8’ were brilliant, simply because devotees knew they were coming.

When Bobby left the old, red-brick cinema as the sunlight was beginning to generate some heat, his white Fred Perry shirt was soaked in sweat, and his Levi’s seemed to be a much deeper blue than when he had gone in. He was surrounded in a fog of his own steam. He felt exhilarated. The amphetamines would still be having their effect, but the spirit of the music was the main reason for his exaltation. The group had fragmented just after they had all got in and he had left on his own. Without the pressure of buying rounds of drinks, everyone just split to get off on the vibe.

Heading back to the car park, Bobby felt like there was a glow around him – like the people in the
Ready Brek
advert. He was smiling incessantly – like the Joker. As he approached the rustic-toned van, Bobby caught sight of two young coppers taking interest in what had apparently been a bit of bother. The van’s side door was slid open and a clearly dazed Jimmy Stevenson sat on its second step. One copper circled the vehicle tentatively, as if it contained a suspect device that might go off any minute. The other stood stock-still in front of Jimmy, attempting to take notes in his small black book.

‘Whit’s goin’ on, Jim?’ enquired Bobby; a logical question given that the driver had clearly been in a fight of some sort. It was also equally clear that he’d lost.

‘Git tha’sen lost, son,’ offered the policeman with the notebook. Bobby wasn’t sure what had just been said to him. It sounded like a foreign language but he understood he was being directed towards a café where two of his group had already been sent. He found them in there.

‘Where’s everybody else?’ he asked.

‘Fuck knows. Probably still in there,’ offered Tam Wood.

‘Whit’s goin’ on wi’ oor driver?’ Bobby asked.

‘Nae idea, bud,’ said Tam. ‘We came oot an’ saw wan polis batterin’ him wi’ a truncheon. The other yin was kickin’ him up the arse.’

Bobby bought himself a Coke and an egg roll. He finished his breakfast quickly and they all went back to the van. The scene was generally as they’d left it, but Jimmy was now on his feet and being asked to accompany the policemen to the local station. The rest of their group still hadn’t returned, but the three young Mods were asked to wait in the van, having been informed that their driver would be brought back later.

‘Art-or-reet?’ said the note-taking policeman, as the distressed Jimmy cracked his head off the edge of the Vauxhall Astra with its jam-sandwich markings. Bobby watched in open-mouthed shock as Jimmy started crying.

‘If tha dunt ztop cryin’ thall ger another crak in a minit!’ said the other policeman, admitting to those listening that
they
had indeed been responsible for an earlier ‘crack’.

Four hours later, Jimmy was returned to his van and the reassembled tour party made their way home.

When Bobby recounted the tale to Joey, he couldn’t be sure anyone who travelled to Wigan that weekend knew exactly what happened in the yard next to the multi-storey during the night. But Jimmy returned to Lancashire four months later, and stayed on for a further four as a reluctant guest of Her Majesty. He’d been sentenced to a year, reduced to six months and released two months early for good behaviour.

And now here he was, ten months after first meeting Bobby Cassidy, off the dole and in a new job as Heatwave Disco’s regular driver. Things were looking up, and not just for Jimmy.