FIND A BIN TO PUT IT IN
"Flakie bleedin' Snood?" Arxenblatt guitarist Jolbert "Banana Fingers" Feltonshard was not impressed. "That old pretender? Wossee doin' down 'ere anyway?"
"Come on, guys," protested Herbie, "It's a coup! Flakie Snood's new act premiered as support to Arxenblatt! This could be the break you're waiting for!"
"The only break I'm waiting for is Flakie bleedin' Snood's bleedin' neck," snarled Banana Fingers, "We're supposed to be bleedin' progressive int we! We can't go mixin' with commercial crap like Flakie bleedin' Snood! The fans'll say we've sold out!"
"We've never sold out yet," commented keyboard wizard Isobrin Vilt, "I've seen fewer empty seats[1] in our audience than at the Annual Conference of the League of Apathy."
"At least we've got our bleedin' integrity!"
"And a dirty great overdraft."
"Hey, guys! Let's take it easy, yeah?" Herbie played peacemaker before the bread rolls started flying. "We're lucky we got anybody! Besides, maybe his new act's different, eh? Everybody's turning progressive these days, look at Algie Stangbarkle! He's got fuzz guitars on his new album!"
"Algie bleedin' Stangbarkle?" Fingers was not impressed again. "There's only one thing I can say for Algie bleedin' Stangbarkle."
He paused for the feed. When it didn't come he continued anyway; he had spoken the vocal equivalent of a suspended 4th chord and it craved resolution.
"He ain't Flakie bleedin' Snood!"
"Listen up, team." Manager Gerry Mann pushed away from the wall he was leaning on and strode into room centre. "We've got no choice, so there's no point in arguing. Flakie Snood's Four Million Stink are tonight's support band."
"Flakie bleedin' Snood!"
"I don't call him Flakie Snood," sniggered "Plonker" Porriss (bass/beard). "Know what I call him?"
"That bleedin' twinker Flakie bleedin' Snood?"
"No, it's cleverer than that."
"It would have to be." Isobrin fancied himself a cut above most of the oiks he had to work with, and two or three cuts above the troglodyte axeman. "Go on then Plonker, what do you call Flakie Snood?"
"I call him Fakie Snood."
Feltonshard dissolved in laughter.
"Fakie bleedin' Snood! That's a good one! I'm off to tell Nodger!"
He left the room to find the luckless sticksman, who invariably got himself lost looking for the bathroom in the backstage mazes of venues.
Herbie was miffed. He'd got on all right with Flakie. He hoped the audience weren't going to take the same attitude. He would ask Mr Mann if he could introduce them and put the punters in the right frame of mind.
"Fakie" Snood indeed!
*
Arxenblatt ferried their equipment from venue to venue in a big truck with ten wheels. Vermilion Skink arrived at the stage door carrying their amplifiers in a transport with one wheel.
"Is this it?" asked a surprised Herbie as he met them pulling the wheelbarrow up the steps.
"Yes, it's a back-to-basics approach," improvised Zombie Ramshackle. "Do you have a safe place we can park it? We really ought to leave it back by the roadworks later."
"Back to basics eh? You certainly don't get more basic than a couple of Cheapjack practice amps. I think we'd better put them through the PA system. What guitars are you using?"
Zombie proudly displayed his Gilbert copy of a Giblet GS, whilst Woody held up an instrument of more individual appearance. It bore a distant similarity to a Wingnut Ozoslinger, the professional's guitar of choice, but this was no more significant than saying it bore a distant similarity to a guitar. A previous owner had painted it fluorescent green, leaving visible brush strokes, but the original chocolate brown could be seen in a patch by the bridge where Woody, being left-handed, had removed the vibrato arm, which he had re-attached on the other side using a tangled construction of Mechano (The Beast That Ate The World[2]).
"Well… it's nice to see you've matched your guitars to your amplification."
Herbie politely excused himself, grabbing both tiny amps in one beefy hand and carrying them off to set them up.
"Excellent!" exclaimed Woody.
"No, Flakie!" his companion corrected him, "Tonight I'm Zombie Ramshackle, not the Excellent Kid!"
"I meant it's excellent that we'll be playing through the PA! I've never played through a proper sound system before! Do you think they'll let us use the monitors too?"
"You know the rules, Flakie." Zom was a realist. "The sound crew never give the support band a decent sound, so the headliners sound better."
"In this case, the headliners ARE better. Even though they're Arxenblatt."
"I never thought to hear Flakie Snood say such a thing!"
"Neither did I." A third voice heard from.
Zombie turned to see a bear. No it wasn’t, it was…
"Nodger Pummell!" Zombie extended a managerial hand and shook a paw. "Nodger, I'm Zombie Ramshackle, and I'd like you to meet Flakie Snood!"
"Mr Snood! It's an honour to meet you, sir! I've got all your records!" Say what you like about Nodger - he probably won't understand it anyway - he was quick to train, grabbing the luckless Woody's arm in both hands and pumping it up and down as though he were in the finals of the speed yo-yo internationals.
"Ow! Likewise!" lied Woody, to be polite.
"Mind you, I keep it quiet from the rest of the band. They think you're rubbish. Especially Plonker, he calls you 'Fakie' Snood."
"Er… wh-wh-why does he do that?" Woody worried.
"Oh, I don't know, he's just a plonker. So you've come to see us play, Mr Snood?"
"No, we're supporting you tonight." Zombie poked his oar in quickly in case Woody blurted out a giveaway. "We heard about your support band not being able to make it, and Flakie's always been a great admirer of your music, and I have to say, he's particularly fond of the exemplary work of the rhythm section, particularly the drumming."
"Really? I can't believe it!"
"It's true."
"Uncle Nobby's Potatoheads really can't get here?"
"Don't worry, Nodger. Flakie's new direction is sure to wow the crowds. We'll get them all nicely warmed up for you." Zombie was unaware of the prophetic nature of his words. "Now… just how much did you hear back there?"
"Oh, just the thing about the PA. Don't worry, I'll have a word with the sound crew and make sure everything's turned up nice and loud for Mr Snood."
"Nodger, you're a gem. I've always said drummers are the backbone of popular music."
"Gee thanks. The rest of the band always say I look like a dog's dinner. But that could be a bone, I suppose."
"Now if you'll excuse us Nodger, Flakie and I must go and find a quiet room for our pre-gig meditation."
"OK, Mr Zombie. I'll just find the bathroom, then I'll see the sound crew." He ambled off into the labyrinth.
Zombie turned to Flakie, rubbing his hands.
"Well, that's all nicely sorted. Now let's find a dustbin."
"Are we going to hide in it?" Woody was getting nervous.
"No, Flakie, I've got an idea. There's not much entertainment value in two nerks with guitars just standing there on stage, so we need to put on a bit of a show for the fans."
"Vermilion Skink haven't got any fans."
"Yet."
*
Banana Fingers returned to the dressing room after a bracing walk. Looking for Nodger was always thirsty work, especially when he failed to find him. Never mind, he always turned up in the end. He searched the rider.
"Where's the bleedin' vodka?"
Isobrin Vilt looked up from his copy of Have Keyboard, Will Travel Comix. "Flakie Snood's manager came in just now, said Herbie had promised them unlimited Chokey-Cola. He took the vodka for a mixer."
"Flakie bleedin' Snood's bleedin' manager took my vodka?! How am I supposed to make my Turbo bleedin' Afterburner now? It's supposed to be brandy, tequila, whisky, whiskey, parfait amour, absinthe, crème de menthe, lemonade and bleedin' vodka! It just don't have the kick without the vodka!"
"Can't you use the gin instead?"
"Suppose so. Bleedin' have to now." Fingers began the pouring of the constituents into his four-pint mug as a towel-wrapped Plonker emerged from the shower.
"All nice and clean, Plonker? Ready to get all hot and sweaty on stage?"
"I like to be clean when I put on my stage gear, Jolbert." He opened the wardrobe trunk. "Hey! Where's my stage gear gone?"
Herbie thought this was a good time to take his leave. "I'm off to tell Flakie Snood it's time to go on stage."
"You mean 'Fakie' Snood!"
"Hahahaha! 'Fakie' Snood!" For some reason[3] Banana Fingers still found this hilarious, and a disgrumpolated Herbie found himself pursued down the corridors by the merry tones of Feltonshard and Porris singing, "Fakie, Fakie, Fakie Snood!" to an irritatingly catchy melody.
*
"Stomp it down, Flakie!"
Woody jumped up and down in the bin. "Are you sure it was OK to take this?"
"It's just a bunch of rags."
"That frilly shirt looked a bit like the one Plonker Porris always wears on stage. And the velvet loons looked a bit like the ones Plonker always wears with it."
"But look at the cloak!" It was the cloak that was proving the problem, being so voluminous it kept expanding and trying to crawl out of the bin. "It's been stitched together out of old dusters and stuff!"
"A bit like the cloak Plonker always wears on stage?"
"Yes, it is quite similar, now you mention it. Never mind, it seems to have given up its escape attempts. You can get out now."
Woody clambered down to ground level.
"So we've got a binful of rags. What are we going to do with it?"
"We're going to pour this vodka into it." Zombie did so.
"Isn't that dangerous? It's flammable, you know." Little switches clicked shut in his synapses. "Hey, this reminds me of something that happened an hour or so ago… oh no, you're not…"
He was cut short by Herbie. "Flakie! It's time!"
"Ready to roll, Herbie! Come on, Flakie!"
The duo picked up their guitars and dustbin and followed Herbie onto the stage where they plugged in as Herbie introduced them, shaking his head furiously in an attempt to dislodge the Feltonshard/Porris composition Fakie Snood.
"Ladles and grumplepods! We've got a special treat for you tonight! Uncle Nobby's Potatoheads are still trundling down the motorway" - the audience responded with boos, catcalls, cries of "who cares?" and "who's that guy dressed like Flakie Snood?" - "but we've been very lucky to secure the services of one of pop's most respected icons" - cries of "Algie Stangbarkle!" - "I'd like to introduce you to, with his new band Vermilion Skink…
"FAKIE SNOOD!"
Aaaarggghh! Curse those wicked guitarists and their advertising industry standard jingle writing! Before he had time to apologise and correct himself, Zombie crashed out a great power chord, so he beat a hasty retreat. Maybe nobody would notice his mistake.
And they hadn't. They were too busy asking themselves; Flakie Snood? In Pilmo? Supporting third-rate proggers Arxenblatt? In his old clothes he wears for painting the house, apparently? And who's that idiot with him?
Zom had changed his clothes into something more suitable for stage wear. Instead of baggies, he had gone to the opposite extreme and was wearing crimson drainpipes with a tropical shirt, and had gone overboard with the eyeliner, then covered it up with a big pair of joke shop shades worn over his glasses. He loved to put on a show. Woody was still in his Flakie Snood gear of course.
They stood on either side of a third band member, who appeared to be dressed as, or hiding in, a dustbin, and whose function was unclear, providing a perfect symmetry as the necks of their guitars pointed offstage like the wings of some magnificent bird. At least that was Zombie's perception, but he wasn't standing in the audience looking at himself, although he often wished he could.
What the punters actually saw and heard was a couple of chancers dressed up as pop stars strumming cheap guitars through what seemed to be big transistor radios, and on top of this they sounded as though they were making it up as they went along.
Vermilion Skink continued to strum and skronk their way through Strawberry Jam, which had been previously composed to the point where it was definitely in the key of E major; after that, they made it up as they went along.
Woody caught Zom's eye and beckoned him over for a chat. They met by the bin as they played.
"I like Flakie Snood's new direction," he bellowed in his manager's ear.
"I also," bellowed the bellowed-at one back, "and so do they - just look at them sitting there in awestruck silence!" He nodded towards those who sat there in dumbstruck silence, which had quite different implications. "Let's show 'em what the Skinks can really do! Hit 'em with a chord change! A major - go!"
Both Skinks hit the new chord in perfect synchronisation, except for Woody who fumbled with a B7 before settling into the modulated drone as they shot off back to their respective positions. Woody's Flakie quiff bounced to the beat and Zombie slid his feet as far apart as he could in classic guitarist pose.
"All they're doing is strumming a chord," complained young Arnold Potts, older brother of his little brother. "It's just like wot my nan says - No Bloody Tune!"
"I like it," retorted his companion Adrian Van Enzyme, "It is an antidote to the posturing egomania of so-called progressive groups such as Arxenblatt, a return to the primitive rhythms of ur-music, and as such it appeals to the inner beat of all living creatures. Yet it is valid in itself, possessing a simple beauty similar to that of water."
"You am a twonk," opined Arnold.
Finally Zombie got bored and signalled a return to E major, which they hit in perfect synchronisation, except for Woody who fumbled with a D minor before settling in just in time for the piece to rattle to an end.
A few people clapped out of habit.
"I think we're losing them," said Woody, who had noticed the outflux of punters towards the soft drinks bar.
"We'd better use the big effect," Zombie decided, "Although I had planned to use it during the thirteenth number rather than the second. Let's bring out the big gun."
"Bobble-Hatting?"
"Bobble-Hatting."
"How does it go again?"
Zombie plucked the riff. Woody picked it up and threw it to the pigeons.
This one had lyrics. The Skinks advanced to the microphones to show their skills with harmonies.
"Bobble-hatting" (dum-dee-dum-dum-dum) "Bobble-hatting" (etc)
The little bouncy riff continued, variations being introduced as it went along, until eventually it bore no relation to the original. Then it was time. Zombie propped his guitar against his amp to feed back while Woody carried the beat, took a box of matches from his pocket and struck one. He held it aloft for a few bars, posing dramatically, to increase the tension; what would he do with it?
He chucked it into the bin.
The stuffed-and-soaked contents erupted with a WHOOMPH, scorching the Skinks in a wave of heat. Zom hurried back to his axe to slam out a few power chords while the effect lasted.
It had the desired consequence of drawing the audience back in, as they rushed to see what instrument was making that noise that sounded like a dustbin exploding. The sight that met their eyes was of the same two nerks rattling guitars, but in between them stood a blazing inferno as a growing cloud of smoke slowly obscured them.
It was at this point that Nodger entered the hall from backstage. It had taken him this long to find the bathroom and put it to use, but he was determined to fulfil his promise to Mr Snood as he approached the mixing desk.
"Oi Tramalfi!"
"Not now Nodger, I'm a bit busy. It's hard to mess up a mix when you've only got two guitars to work with."
"Oh no! I promised Mr Snood he could have a good mix!"
"Oh you did, did you? Well, you just listen to me, Mr Drumming Man… what the flip is going on?" He had been focusing on knobs and switches, and had only noticed the bonfire on stage when he looked up at Nodger.
"Never mind, I'll do it myself." Nodger threw himself onto the mixer and turned everything up full. BOOM!
The sudden change in volume blasting from the monitors knocked the Skinks sideways into each other. The audience were blown onto their backs. The mixing desk collapsed.
The bin found itself in the nexus of sound coming from all directions and shot straight up into the air, somersaulting as it flew. This was more than enough for Plonker's voluminous fiery cape to shoot itself out and spread in a great searing canopy, floating gently down through the air.
Zombie, lying on the stage, looked up at a sheet of fire.
"Flakie, get the amps, would you?"
"Have we finished then?"
"I think we have. Oh, and your hair's running."
"Well, it is a bit hot."
"Flakie."
"What?"
"GET THE AMPS!"
They grabbed their amplifiers, yanking the plugs out of the sockets, and ran just as the burning cape settled onto the stage and the flames leapt from drum kit to mallowtron to PA. There was an awkward moment as they fled through the backstage passages when they had to pass Arxenblatt's dressing room, but luckily the band were too engrossed in other matters to notice them racing past the door.
"Calm down, Plonker. That cape always got tangled up in your bass strings anyway." Gerry Mann attempted to calm the distraught bassist.
"I'm known for my eccentric dress sense! The fans expect it! I can't go on in my street wear!"
"Your psychedelic waistcoast, baggy pirate blouse and rainbow-striped jeans? Who'd notice?"
"Look, it would be like Fakie Snood going on without his gold lamé tuxedo or outrageous quiff!"
"Ha ha ha ha ha 'Fakie' Snood!"
"Shut up, Jolbert! This is more serious than your stolen vodka!"
"To be bleedin' honest, mate, I always thought you looked a right bleedin' twonk in that gear. You'd be better off going on wrapped in that bleedin' towel."
"At least I can still play whether I look a right bleeding twonk or not! At least I'm not fumbling around in an alcoholic haze wondering whether the next chord is a G major seventh or a C sharp diminished ninth!"
"That'll be one of Isobrin's bits then, he's always bleedin' showing off just coz he's classically bleedin' trained."
"Don't bring me into this just because I know my myxolodotians from my chromaticals. By the way, does anyone else hear that bell or is it just my ears ringing from all the shouting?"
Right on cue Herbie poked his head into the dressing room.
"The stage is on fire! Proceed in an orderly manner to the nearest fire exit panicking wildly! Aaaarggghhh!"
He picked himself up and staggered after the stampeding musicians.
"Hello, what's this?"
Lying in the passage was a threadbare gold lamé tuxedo. He picked it up and inspected it. It was covered with streaks of vinyl, as though a record had melted all over it and hardened as it cooled. It was the exact jet black of Mr Snood's hair. What could this mean? he asked himself.
"I don't know," he answered, threw it back down the passage where even now flames were beginning to lick at the walls, and got himself out of there pronto.
*
Later, the Skinks settled down after their first ever live gig, relaxing in front of the TV, which was broadcasting on the local station a special news bulletin. Apparently the Glidhall had somehow caught fire during a concert by a progressive rock band. Behind the announcer could be seen a squadron of fire engines spurting water onto the building, and the usual crowd of sightseers.
"Hey look, there's Plonker! Standing on the street wearing nothing but a towel!" spotted Eagle-eye Ex.
"That's a new look for him, isn't it?" queried Woody, who was plucking the remaining blobs of vinyl from his hair.
"Yes, maybe something happened to his old stage gear. Speaking of which, what happened to my jacket?"
"I didn't feel like being Flakie Snood any more."
"You mean…?"
Looking at the inferno that was the Glidhall, that stately building in which the council of Pilmo held its many high-profile functions, paid for by the exorbitant rates contributed by the hard-working citizens, now burning itself into a hollow, blackened shell, Ex was overcome by sudden grief.
"My jacket! My precious jacket!" he sobbed.
"Oops," said Woody.
*
"My mallowtron! My precious mallowtron!" Isobrin Vilt sat on a nearby fire engine and howled.
"My cape! My precious cape!" Plonker joined in.
"My sticks! My lovely sticks!" Nodger capered about them, overjoyed that he had kept his sticks in his pocket and thus saved them from the conflagration. Later he might remember about his drum kit.
Andrayla Nipper was interviewing Banana Fingers.
"So, Mr Feltonshard, do you have any idea how the fire started?"
"Yeah, I bleedin' do.
"It was Flakie bleedin' Snood."
[1] Seated enjoyment was all the rage in those days. True, a few brave souls would venture into the aisles or even to the front of the stage to do the Hairy Dance to the complex rhythms of prog, but most preferred to sit comfortably and marvel at the virtuosity and cerebralism on display, stroking their chins and quietly making fun of the Hairy Dancers.
[2] Not really. Mechano being lots of bits of metal in a box which you're supposed to be able to bolt together to make Things out of, but which normally remain as lots of bits of metal in a box.
[3] Possibly his infantile sense of humour.