WHITE RIOT (3.)
We shall never know whether Billy would have struck a blow for capitalism or Ashley one for racial tolerance. For there is at that moment that most exciting of sounds, lots of glass breaking in the path of a missile, in this case the picture window of the pub and a brick. Huge shards of glass slice into tabletops and floorboards and the disco soundtrack is drowned in a swelling wave of screaming and panicky bodies retreating tidally over upturned chairs. The four of us stand motionless, frozen in a tableau, each of us captured in our last stance, like some municipal war memorial. Then, frantically and without a word uttered, we begin to shift the gear back. Leads are ripped out of the twin H&H PA column speakers, mics are tugged from brackets, stands are pushed and bent shut and Ashleyís drumkit is torn apart. Within moments all the tackle is piled precariously at the rear of the stage. Only Dekeís sad little chord-chart stand remains, the book still open at ëChoo-Choo ChíBoogieí.
In the body of the pub itís riot time. Half-bricks, fence palings and even a car spare wheel come hurtling through the smashed window. Punters are crouched behind overturned tables or pushing and elbowing their way towards the deeper recesses of the large bar. From our raised position I can see into the lit car park. Small groups of Asian men, some of them in Sikh turbans, are rushing towards the widow, launching their missiles and retreating into a larger mob gathered along the low brick wall. Ducking and diving, the stocky barman and his reinforcements in the form of the brain dead Chuck Berry fan and the two suedeheads, manoeuvre their way across the front line towards the gaping hole. Just as Iím beginning to grudgingly admire their physical courage there is a corporate roar from the stairs and a flying column of bomber-jacketed skinheads led by a balding, middle-aged guy in a suit carves a passage through the wreckage. Kicking crouching punters to one side they clamber over the scattered furniture. I donít know whether to laugh or cry: the middle-aged suit is waving a huge Union Jack on a spear-tipped pole like heís Kitchener at Khartoum. As the Aryan shock troops head fro the window, so the doors burst open a flying wedge of bearded Sikhs swinging pickaxe handles drives hard into the chaos of broken glass and splintered wood. These guys clearly mean business and for a moment the rampaging wave of shaven warriors is halted. There follows one of those standoffs that have you grinning in the dark in westerns. Gimlet eyes lock across a narrow stretch of dusty street. There is silence save for the creaking of cicadas and a few notes on a Spanish guitar. Here gimlet eyes lock across a narrow stretch of wasted Wilton carpet and there is silence save for a couple of jabbering belches and the tinkling of broken glass.
And then all hell breaks loose as the forces meet in a flurry of swinging fists and kicking legs. Within a moment itís virtually impossible to distinguish between attackers and defenders, the more so when a scrabbling line of punters brandishing chair legs and beer glasses falls upon the skins from behind. Suddenly savagery tumbles into Carry On comedy as the sheer pressure of bodies makes it virtually impossible to land a punch, a blow or a kick. Rocking back and forth, slithering about in spilt lager and thrashing wildly for balance, the combatants seem to be locked into some kind of surreal Mardi Gras mambo. I look around the stage: the guys are all motionless, frozen now in poses of incredulity. I feel an insane grin tugging at the corners of my mouth and a crazed laugh welling up within. The lunatics have taken over the asylum and the worldís been turned upside down at the same time. One by one the guys are overcome by the same anarchic impulse and the hysteria runs between us like electricity. And then, of course, right on cue Deke emerges from the turmoil of bodies that surrounds the battle. His shirt is undine and pulled out of his trousers, revealing a mat of pepper-and-salt chest hair, and his blonde wig is tilted over one eye. Once on the stage he pauses on hands and knees, panting like a knackered Labrador and then he wobbles unsteadily to his feet. Mouth open, gazing at Dekeís bumfluff scalp, Ashley starts us off with a wild cry. Then all is lost and we fall against each other, sobbing like the damned.
At some point during what seems like an eternity of glorious agony, Billy pulls out of the gurgling scrum and waves an arm at the stacked gear behind us.
ìQuick!î he urges. ìGet the gear out! Set up!î
We stare at him uncomprehendingly as he swings the PA amp down and disentangles the mains lead from the handle itís wrapped around. And then, laughing still but infected by Billyís manic activity, we tug and pull ands lift the equipment back into position. Within minutes weíve got the amps plugged into the four-gang plug board bristling with adaptors, leads are jammed in and weíre ready to rock.
Before us the scene is one of devastation and farce. The floor is clogged with wrecked furniture, bits of broken masonry, jagged pieces of glass. And amongst it all is the struggling mass, each combatant still locked together unable to separate in the press of bodies and wreckage. The noise is unbelievable ñ the pump and hiss of piped disco dimly discernible beneath the choral counterpoint of the yelling would-be fighters, struggling for purchase on the clogged floor and each other. Bill grabs his mic from its stand, turns round to face us, wild-eyed, takes a deep breath, turns to face the crowd and shrieks, ì1-2-3-4..!î. The problem is, of course, that he hasnít told us what weíre playing so for a handful of hysterical bars heís dancing on the spot like Rumpelstiltskin, bawling a capella. Somehow we unbend from the stomach cramps and we roll and tumble into ëDown the Road Apieceí.
And from chaotic chords and polyrhythmic mayhem a pattern emerges. Cranking up the master gains on all the amps to 11 0í clock and playing with energy renewed, we do indeed rock like fuck. When the mode of the music changes, they say, the walls of the city shake. As volume increases, as speed gathers, as our crazed pogoing carries us close to the ceiling, and as Billyís scissor jumps and rubber-legged bends render James Brown redundant, a small miracle takes place. Our faithful punters, black, brown and white, most of them gathered on the far side of the two battling factions, turn to face us. Undeterred by the exhausted but dogged determination of the fighters still to beat forty shades of shit out of each other, they rally. As if called by Joshuaís trumpet they rise and, in a ragged tide of black t-shirts and denim, they clamber over the locked bodies. Levering themselves up on a turbaned head here and a shaven one there, they hit the litter-strewn space in front of the stage dancing. Within twelve bars played manically fast a coiling, whirling mass of dervishes has seized the high ground. Once again sweat and hyperventilation prevail. With barely a break and no announcements, we reel from one classic to another and the dance goes on.
Whether this really counts as a small miracle or whether after 20 years of rock and roll some conditioned reflex has feet moving automatically in time to plectrums bashing strings, I donít know. But when the police arrive in legions ten minutes later they find little left to sort out. A small and bedraggled gang of skinheads, an unconscious barman, still with iron bar in hand, are scattered about the ruined interior of the Harborough Castle. When questioned no one seems to know quite what happened. We know nothing, of course, and nor does our audience. We were simply dancing the night away.
As we pack the gear away Ashley straightens up, cradling his ride cymbal.
ìWhen you think about itî, he muses, grinning, ìI guess that was rock against racism in practice. Fishfry starts to rock and the race riot is topped in its tracksî.
Billy sneers.
ìWhatís so funny ëbout peace, love and understandingî, he sings sardonically.
But itís food for thought: when a huge crowd of Asian rioters burned the Harborough Castle to the ground a month later, it wasnít band night.
6:26:34 PM 
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