LIFE ON EARTH?
The Masked Martians' Debut Gig
Slowly the masked silver figures made their way to the stage while the huzzle and pleep from the PA grew louder so that the Patrons of the Hostelry could not hear themselves complaining. As the aliens settled themselves around their instruments several people failed to leave the bar due to aurally-induced paralysis; indeed, some were rendered immobile simply due to their bewilderment, but such was the frazzle on their lugoles that they could not even hear the grindings of the gears in their brains as they struggled to bring the happenings into focus, probably.
It was no normal Saturday night at the Windbreak Inn. All there assembled who had come to see Fred Bloggs and the Steam Engines (formerly Fred Bloggs and the Steam Rollers) were destined not to see them, as they had cancelled due to Joe Soap straining his vibrato finger whilst writing his business accounts. But the Bloggsiphiles were used to spending every Saturday night at the Break, and didn't know where else to go, so they stayed anyway. Landlord Tlug Blone, when asked, could not tell them anything about the last-minute substitute[1], so there was always a chance that they might be a really brilliant band who played old blues standards or covers of current chart hits interspersed with ever-popular faves like Tree's All White Cow or Feetboot Jack's Albert Ross; after all, almost every band in Pilmo was one or the other.
Or maybe they'd be wacky funsters like the Aerosols, the only local band ever to have broken the mould with their punk cabaret larf-a-minute arsing about which was just perfect for starting Sunday with an extreme amount of alcohol before moving on the Dangling Club. Yes, that's it, they must be exactly like the Aerosols with a name like, what was it, the Manky Martins? They would surely have a mad frontman who couldn't sing and made everyone larf by walking around the audience shouting abuse at them and two girl backing vocalists who dressed up as schoolgirls and nurses and they'd keep playing wrong notes and kicking each other, well that'll be nice, make a change, good to see something different, good heavens what have I said? Wash my mouth out with soap and water! No, make that crisps and lager. And here's a ten pound note, go and get me a packet of seven fags from the machine. Is that tequila? Yeah, thanks, I will.
*
Actually, half the people in the pub didn't care who the band was anyway as they generally spent most of the night trying to talk to each other above the blues riffs or the jukebox, and the other half had spent just standing around gawping at the gear on the stage. There was an empty space through force of habit where the regular bands used to set up their 48-channel mixing desks with two or three microphones plugged into it, so when all Wally's and Flodge's and Phoebe's friends came in with Ogg's dog Stribble they all had somewhere to stand after the statutory journey to the bar for a half of cider, which they passed around among themselves.
Around them all the Normals were standing about chatting, while the jukebox played that Normal fave Freezebean by Beard, and there had softly begun an low hum from the tiny vocals-only practice-in-the-garage standard PA. A couple of the off-duty muso types among the punters had just started sneering at the quality of the equipment listen to that background buzz when they noticed the hum was getting louder and others were looking around wondering where it was coming from and then these little wiggly bits started coming in, sort of weedle weedle buzz weedle over the top, and the more astute and investigative picked out a little cassette player sitting on the stage aha it's a tape!
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Wally |
But no sooner had those members of the assembled who had been established as leaders of opinion begun to decry the pretentiousness of using an introduction tape at a Breakwind Inn Saturday night gig than someone came in the door, and everybody turned to look, like they do, and he was wearing a tinfoil suit and sunglasses, one of those funny ones, or is it two of those funny pairs, like welding goggles only blacker, so everyone started giggling at the loony. Then three others came in, and the laughter took on an undertone of panic. Four loonies was perilously close to constituting a tribe.
The tape was getting really loud and irritating by now and nobody could hear the famous and popular guitar solo in Frizbee by Bleared. In fact, the punters were getting quite upset as their ears began to bleed, while nevertheless their eyes followed the strange newcomers as they made their way forward and settled into their instruments.
Finally! With a mighty explosion which made it seem that the very air itself had been rent asunder, accompanied by a severe lack of anything actually blowing up, for it was only the tape after all, The Masked Martians burst headlong into their first number, Wally kicking the tape player to turn it off.
The Martians themselves were barely different from their introduction with their buzzsaw guitars, pounding bass throb and clattering percussiveness, and to add to the general trauma hardly a bar had passed when hurling itself into the pub and onto the stage came a figure adorned in a bignose rubber mask, ankle-length gold lurex scarf, tie-dyed purple boiler suit and flippers. It snatched at the microphone which tossed its stand to the ground in surprise, and began to sing.
It was difficult to understand the implications of the lyrics, as they were distorted beyond recognition by the overworked PA and hampered by rubber muffling, but it sounded as though the chorus went "az waz ar boo nah". It was discovered later by a research team labouring day and night for a few seconds that this was due in large part to the lyrics being "az waz ar boo nah". As the song continued, the apparition engaged itself in a manic twitching dance, flippers flipping, scarf undulating, nose on rubber mask bibblybobbling to the beat.
The effect upon the assembled was, was, was indiscernible but for a few gaping maws. Oh, Pilmo had never seen the like before! Not even a token bearded member of the band, as far as one could tell with one of them wearing a mask, and why all this insane energy, are they supposed to be enjoying themselves or something? What's going on?
The enigma was still not solved as the band smashed its way to a close, leaving several wondering whether they had gone to sleep for a bit, as they couldn't remember the guitar solo, and resolving to pay more attention during the next song.
Which was announced as "mumblygarble" due to the singer's mask, so he tore it off to reveal the face of one known to all the regulars as a total stranger. "Why, it's a total stranger whom I have never seen before and do not recognise, plus I am not acquainted with him!" many were heard to exclaim, for they were ignorant of who he was and were not aware of his identity, which was Twitch.
The song was re-announced as Telephone Garden and the band tore into it with a vengeance, ripping it to shreds and scattering the fragments about the auditorium (n. large room for public gatherings). The frazzle and slam of singing strings and thumping tubs underpinned by grobbling bottomness laid down covering fire for the scorched abrasion of Twitch's larynxisms as he blasted the plebs with his proclamations: "rabbit wax collar zero," he cried, dashing their lugs with lyrical pebbles; "nook rosary eel pliers". Even as they dodged the shrapnel Twitch finally tripped over his scarf, flailing his way into the space before the stage where nobody ever stood until the press forced them that way, chanting "camel balcony tyre". By the time he had reached "cottage tower prop" he was back in place again, only slightly twisted into a hunch by the knotted lurex around his ankle, and luckily the band ground to a lurch at this point giving him a change to untangle himself.
The bewildered silence of the regulars (synonyms: normal standard established uniform average ordinary common mediocre unimpressive) disturbed by the enthusiastic applause and cheers of the hardcore fans/friends of the band (and the wurfing of Stribble), the rest of the audience were slowly coming to a dreadful realisation; this band weren't going to play ANY guitar solos! What manner of creature were they? Something strange was happening in the borough, and some of the more superstitious ritually poured their beer over each other's heads.
But then a ray of hope glimmered in the far distance. "For those of you who like the blues," declared Twitch, "This is Dead Blued." Ah! This was better, something they could understand, not splitting enough hairs to note that Twitch had not said for what reason this song was dedicated to likers of blues. Thus their smiles froze beneath their nebs as, instead of the chumbly chumbly rhythm they had expected, Ogg and Phoebe slumped into a single bump. the foregathered had just enough moments to wonder if it was a co-ordinated mistake when all the band fell into the following beat; "num," they went.
And so on. There was a very, very faint bluesy tinge in there somewhere, if you could bear to listen, but oh my toes and blisters it was so fragging SLOW! If the preceding two songs had been noteworthy attempts on the world ear-speed record, this one had all the velocity of a sleeping tortoise whose tail had been glued to a rock. Were these persons taking the piddle or wot?
While the cogs of probability creaked around in their thinking organs, Twitch was steadily jerking his microphone hand towards his mouth in slo-mo, for this was a show and Twitch considered himself a performer. It seemed the introduction was gradually making its way into the song proper, for the frontman's lips were almost visibly moving apart for his first dramatic note. Necks craned forward automatically, eyes glued to cakehole, harpstrings of saliva stretching across the gaping cavern in the depths of which, could it be, a thin but growing note could be seen intensifying and inching its way into the air.
"aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAA"
Come on! Come on! Get out there! We're waiting for you! Beads of sweat broke forth on brows, glasses shattered under the pressure, and one poor girl burst into tears, her faith in humanity destroyed. Finally the great day arrived;
"aaaaaAAAAAi'vebeenopeningdoorswithmyhead !"
The audience jerked back as one, those at the rear cracking their heads on the wall, and Mad Mike ("He's a really crazy guy! Knows every episode of 'Nutty Gang' off by heart!") tumbled over the bar backwards, giving his friends yet another wacky anecdote to tell in pubs for years to come. It's a nil wind eh?
"Horrified fascination" is rather a cliché these days, but so apt for the situation that it is feasibly used here. It was even possible to detect a sense of humour in the atrocity oozing over the assembled, but surely blues is SERIOUS music. Are those people dancing over there?
Indeed they were; Wally's and Phoebe's and Flodge's friends were on the floor in front of the stage moving their limbs almost imperceptibly. Are we missing something here? Can there really be some merit in this exercise in unsanity?
A few of the People started to consider this, and given that Blued eventually gurgled to its end after 25 minutes, they had plenty of time to work out the sociological, psychological, astrological and musicogical implications, and may have progressed to the correct idea that all this didn't matter and should be viewed holistically and in no detail at all if Twitch hadn't decided to close the set with Scrag 'Im!
In a clatter of cans a pulsing belch started up, as the face of Twitch contorted itself into a leering snarl, for he was taking on the character of the song. Unfortunately the Beards could not be expected to understand this, as all their favourite blues bands played songs designed to project the characters they perceived to be their own; songs about being the best shagger ever, basically, dressed up in metaphors and thinnuendos such as "rockin' all night long". Therefore they saw in Twitch the hideous monster of their nightmares, one who was challenging all their rituals and routines, and conventioncepts like the best guitarist is the one who can play fastest. Confusion turned to fear which turned to thoughts of "Who does he think he is anyway?" and "how dare these unconventional people come here to our temple and proceed to cast aspersions on our illusions!" although not in quite those terms - more like "Snivelling little upstarts!" or "Winkers!"
Surging up into the first verse, graunching guitars crashed into brain cells and Twitch screamed the words of his protagonist - "I'll spifflicate him/ Annihilate him/ I'll cut him into little pieces/ Feed him to the dogs." Several punters pontificated upon this and found it threatening. "I'll pulverise him/ I'll marmalise him/ I'll flush him down the pan." Hardly more promising. The Masked Martians were apparently getting far too uppity for their own good, not to mention for the good of those they intended to spifflicate. Come the chorus, the first backing vocals of the set, particularly with the gruffness of Flodge's vinegar-toughened throatiness, and especially since they went "Aggression/ Aggression" etc, lent an air of menace to the already upsetting strange-clothes-and-noise stance. They come in here with their dressing up like they think they're in a pop group or something and their not playing the blues and then they shout at us, shouldn't be allowed, well I mean to say!
Still the situation might not have gone any farther than whinges to the landlord about the standard of the so-called entertainment on this a Saturday night of all nights if Twitch had not chosen this song to show off his malfunctioning robot dance, which involved arms stretched straight out in front of him like a Hollywood interpretation of a mad scientist's horrific creation, and frenzied kicks of the legs as high as they could go, which was quite high as Twitch kept himself limber by habitually sleeping in such positions as half on bed half on floor half in bedside cabinet, or curled up in the bottom of the wardrobe. For he was still wearing his flippers, which are a boon to submarine swimmers but not designed for more terranean activities, such as, ooh, let's say malfunctioning robot dances; it was almost inevitable that one or the other would slip its leash and fly off into the throng. In fact, both of them elected to do so. The first soared gracefully into the fan club, who immediately started slapping each other about the heads with it, but the other was more daring and shot like a pellet of potato from a spud gun in the direction of the bar, where the landlord was just rising from the depths of the orange juice shelf. If only Nadine had not been going through one of her periodic health kicks which included a vow of abstinence, the renegade footwear item would have harmlessly flapped past Tlug, who would have been standing at the optic pouring a quadruple vodka, and landed safely among the crisp cartons; as it happened, it lodged with no uncertainty in the grip of Tlug's dentures. This is not a happy thing to happen to the landlord of the pub where one is performing.
For a moment Tlug was not sure why he found himself eating rubber - he was more inclined to feeding himself with edible items, such as food - and as he fought himself out of shock he caught sight of himself in the bar mirror. He had apparently swallowed most of a large blue fish, though he couldn't quite manage the tail I'm afraid, but you must give me the recipe. Pulling the piscine morsel from his mouth he found it to be in fact the flipper we knew it was all along, albeit with a set of false teeth embedded in the foot end.
Tlug had never been treated this way by one of the bands he graciously consented to allow into his establishment (on top of which he was obliged to pay them £1.50 each and a free half-pint of water after the gig); he was more accustomed to them grovelling at his boots and begging please oh please Mr Blone give us a gig sir. For the first time that evening he noticed the band, breaking the habit of a career.
Four people dressed in tinfoil and sunglasses were kicking up the most unholy row while some lunatic in a purple boiler suit appeared to be kick-boxing an invisible opponent. So this was what the young people considered entertainment today! Juvenile delinquents with no dress sense hitting guitars, thrashing phantoms and to top it all hurling missiles at their elders! Tlug was not going to put up with this sort of thing! Smugly smirking a smug smirk, he reached for the stage power switch.
"Aggress" whish pop
All the scuzz died away in the air, leaving the Martians pumping away at their instruments to no effect, except for Ogg who instantly attempted to fill the gap with thundering rolls and crashes, while the other players turned to gaze at their amplifiers in confusion. Only Twitch had the presence of mind (and the essential knowledge of electricity) to realise what had happened, turning to Tlug and burning him a stare of mind-bombing intensification. But Tlug was made of sterner stuff, and stoned him back.
Meanwhile, the Beards had found something they could relate to - a drum solo! A great cheer went up, which, had Ogg been able to hear it from behind his throom, would have shaken his kit into its component parts, for he was not used to expressions of appreciation. So hearty was the applause that the gleeful cries of "Boring!" from the Fan Club were all but drowned out. It seemed the Martians were in danger of being a success.
Tlug was startled, thinking in his solipsism that the punters were belatedly applauding the unseemly attack upon his person. So that was the size of things! These people whom he had allowed for so long to come into his hostelry, permitting them to drink as much as they liked just as long as they paid his completely reasonable prices, now turned around and as much as said it's a jolly good thing that their benefactor should be assaulted with swimming aids! Well, he'd soon see about that!
So it was that The Masked Martians' debut gig ended historically with the entire clientele of the Breakwind Inn being banned for life from the premises, and the Martians themselves standing outside five minutes later with a jumble of gear about them. They couldn't even say they had been paid off, as they hadn't been paid. Slowly the five members looked at each other, conducting a silent post mortem. Then as one they all raised their hands and slapped them together in a pentatonic clap.
"Yeah!" "Good one!" "Firkin brill!"