WHITE RIOT
ìWeíre Fishfry and we rock like fuck! 1-2-3-4!î Billy barks us into ëWatermelon Maní, our pedal-to-the-metal ska anthem, all tight snare drum and bass to the fore. Form the off heís into his Pinky and Perky strut, jumping sideways from foot to foot. Soon Jackie and I will go into launch mode, pogoing alternately, him on the first bar, me on the second. Deke will scoop air with his sax horn, ducking and diving, eyes never leaving the chord chart propped in front of him. Ashley sits bolt upright behind his kit, snapping the sticks across from the wrist. His eyes never leave the top of Dekeís head and its unfeasibly blonde rug, willing it to flip back like a lid.
And all is well. We are indeed Fishfry. We straddle that little gap between hairy old pub rock and spotty new punk anarchy and we cook like a short-order kitchen. Itís 1977 and the air is clear ñ not a breath of patchouli, not a whiff of joss stick. Just the sweet fragrance of spilt Carslberg, fagsmoke and sweat from an audience shaking and shimmying in a blur of Tom Robinson t-shirts and spiky hair. As we chop through the bar-room blues and roadhouse boogie of ëCaldoniaí and Billyís breakneck rocker, ëJust Another Drinkí, Iím trying to ignore two suedeheads in crombies at the back of the room. They have a sort of unison Zebedee routine that involves springing into the air with their right arms raised, yelling something that could be ìSieg Heilî. But my attention is easily diverted to the front row of punters where a big girl has got her tits out. Mesmerised to a man, we rock on.
As my Baptist granny used to say, there are none so blind as they who will not see. And when it came to grabbing the chance a bit of work, we Stevie Wondered it from the off. We got the Harborough Castle gig through this flash agency, Cut and Thrust. (ìSounds like a combination barbers and knocking shopî, Ashley quipped). Mr Cut and Thrust himself was a little guy wearing horn-rimmed specs. H looked like the classroom swot, all knowing and innocent at the same time. He approached us after a Rockgarden gig, talking up a deal on the stairs as we were humping out the gear. We left it to Billy, who blagged work and wages like he was flogging watches in Deptford Market. And it all looked good. We picked up a string of dates across West London, two of them supports to up-and-coming bands. The months passed and the flocks gathered, following us from venue to venue. Soon there was a Fishfry Crew, all skinny ties, tight black jeans and DMs, calling us by first names and handing up spliffs when we played. We were on a bit of a roll what with the live work, an EP in the Time Out top ten and airtime on John Peel. So when the klaxons went arooga at the Harborough Castle the week before the gig, we copped a mutual deaf ear.
That was when Billy and I dropped in one Friday lunchtime with some posters. It was quiet, just a bored barman reading The Sun and two elderly Sikhs and a greyhound huddled in a corner at the far end of the public bar. Billy dumped the poster and some EP sleeves on the counter. He folded his paper.
ìYeah?î he grunted at Billy and I simultaneously. He was able to do this comfortably because he was boss-eyed in reverse: one eye looked east & the other west.
ìLager topî, Billy and I chorused, sniggering as he tuned away to lift down the glasses. Billy cleared his throat.
ìWeíre with Fishfryî, he announced. ìGot a gig here next week and wondered if youíd stick these upî.
The barman filled the glasses and leafed through the poster. Wee were rather proud of them. Exñart student Jack has designed them as a cartoon dialogue in frames - two shifty looking hoods, one explaining the style of music to the other. The barman followed the entirely clear dialogue through, his thick lips moving slightly as he read. He looked up at both of us.
ìSo what sort of stuff do you play, then?î
Billy and I glanced at each other.
ìErÖ ëA shot of rhythmíníblues with just a little rockíníroll on the side. Garnished with a fistful of swingíníjazzíî, he quoted from the sheet on the bar.
Unfazed by Billyís sarcastic tone and the crap Brooklyn accent, the barmanís face lit up.
ìOh, right. R&B, blues aní all that. Nice one. Do you do any Chuck Berry? I got everything he ever recordedî. He nodded proudly.
ìNot reallyî, Billy sniffed. ìItís mainly the more swingy, ë40s, ë50s gear ñ Louis Jordan, Mose Allison, Merrill MooreÖî
ìOh, right. Donít know them. Nig-nogs, are they?î
I checked the barmanís out-of-kilter face for traces of irony and found one. There was a five-second silence ended by Billy clearing his throat, his powers of street diplomacy challenged to the limit.
ìMainly black,î, he said stiffly. ìLike Chuck Berry isî.
By now the barman was positively affable, glad to have fallen into conversation with fellow enthusiasts. He picked up his cigarettes from the till and offered them.
ìNow, for meî, he aid authoritatively, lighting our fags, ìElvis will always be the king. Early Elvis, that is. When he could still move and groove a bit, know what I mean?î He cupped an ear with one hand and flung up the other hand in the clichÈd drooping point that characterises Elvis to the amateur mimic. Behind the bar his legs did a little crisscross switch.
ìYeah, he was the boy, wasnít he, know what I mean? Before that jewboy manager come along & fucked it all upî. He shook his head and pulled on his fag sadly. ìPoor old Elvis. Killed off by nig-nog drug pushersî.
Not wishing to risk another companionable silence in which we all reflected on white supremacy, I spoke up.
ìHang about. Youíre a Chuck Berry fan, right?î
He lfited a hand, traffic cop style.
ìNow, donít get me wrong. I got nothing against your black singers. They do it right. They got the voices, they got the moves. It comes natural. ButÖî (the hand came up again) ìI donít want him nicking my job and I donít want him slipping my daughter one. Am I right or am I right?î
ìTwo larger tops, pleaseî, I argued.
Billy decided to recapture the initiative. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the two Sikhs nursing pints.
ìYou donít seem to mind them drinking your beer, thoughî.
The barman grinned.
ìOh, no. Long as they pay up and keep their heads down. And we always give the glasses a good old rinse out afterî. He laughed and winked a wayward eye.
Somewhere deep within me a sleeping liberal stirred.
ìSo what happens if they donít keep their heads down, then@î
ìWell, then we have to get a bit cross. We have to take measured, donít we?î
ìMeasures?î Billy queried, trying to match my sardonic tone.
The barman reached under the bar and lifted something wrapped in three tea towels onto the counter.
ìMeasuresî, he conformed, peeling back a towel to reveal one end of an iron bar some four feet long. He chuckled reminiscently and stroked it with two fingers. ìWe had three Pakkis in here last week. One of them said heís been short-changed. Said heíd given me a twenty when I knew it was a tenner. Fuckiní chancer. So I give ëem a taste of ëmeasuresí and we left them on the step outsideî.
All cool abandoned, Billy and I gaped.
ìWhat? In front of everyone?î Billy asked. ìSo what did all the other customers do?î
The barman grinned.
ìWhat did they do? Walked round íem, of courseî. (Continued)
12:10:54 AM 
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