The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Read online

  ‘Well now. What do we have here?’ Clifford X. Raymonde stood back to get a full view of the four band members.

  The studio boss asking the question was an odd mix of styles in his own right. He had skin so dark and leathery it could have been coated in creosote. He had a hairstyle that rivalled Barry Gibb in its length and perfectly coiffured structure. A carefully trimmed dark stubble line could have drawn comparisons with Captain Black of the Mysterons. He wore John Lennon-style granny glasses, but with two different coloured lens; ‘It helps me see the colour of your soul,’ he would later tell Maggie. A purple-hued paisley-patterned shirt with the cuffs turned up once, a blue cravat and a pair of beige cords with brown-leather knee patches made up the ensemble. And he was barefoot, Sandie Shaw-style. Clifford had an inch-long fingernail on the smallest finger of his right hand. Despite fierce competition for the accolade, his teeth were perhaps his most striking characteristic. They were terrible. When he smiled – as he did almost constantly – his mouth looked like the result of a prison riot. The studio mirrored its owner’s uncoordinated taste. Carpet-tile samples were nailed to almost every surface in the studio spaces. Mould spores grew up the base of the walls in the other areas, and Maggie was convinced a cockroach had crawled for cover under a desk when the studio boss flicked the switch to a bare light bulb in the studio’s ‘store room’.

  ‘Hmm … nice cheekbones. Hair maybe needs a wave or two. Like the make-up, love. Very striking,’ he said theatrically to Grant Delgado. ‘And who do we have under the, em … helmet?’ Max Mojo pushed himself to the front. ‘Ooh! An eye-patch … nice gimmick, son. What do you play?’

  ‘Ah’m the fuckin’ manager. An’ by the by … they dinnae need fashion advice.’ He scanned the producer up and down several times. ‘They need a bastart recording!’

  ‘Well you’re a bright young thing and no mistake,’ said Clifford. ‘I’m Clifford X. Raymonde, but everybody calls me X-Ray … or maybe just X, once we’ve got to know each other better, okay?’

  The band nodded. Max Mojo pursed his lips and eventually said ‘Aye. Fine.’

  Max was way out of his depth in this situation but couldn’t admit that to the others, to X-Ray, or even to himself. He had no clue about the technical process of recording. The veteran studio boss homed in on it right away. He had listened to their initial songs with apparent disinterest, but he had heard something startling. His tactical brain kicked into gear.

  ‘Okay, people,’ he said. ‘Bring your material in and Colum there will get you properly settled.’ X-ray picked up the grubbiest, most well-thumbed book Max had ever seen. It was light blue and had a picture of Tony Hatch on the torn and sellotaped front cover. Max had noticed it on the way in because of its title: So You Want To Be in the Music Business. ‘I’m just away to my office. I’ll see you soon,’ said X-ray, with a wink towards Max. He headed for a door with ‘bogs’ scrawled on it.

  ‘Fuck sake, how long ye gonnae be?’ asked Max.

  ‘Oh, I take me time. Savour the experience, y’know? Sometimes, I even just wait there for the next one.’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell, Max … how much is this aw costin’? Are we payin’ this auld hippy by the track, or by the hour?’ Grant was unusually rattled.

  ‘Jist as long as it’s no’ by the shite, eh?’ said Simon Sylvester.

  ‘Look, let’s jist get fuckin’ set up an’ started, eh? Dinnae worry aboot the cost ae it. Ah’ll deal wi’ that. Ah jist want somethin’ we can actually fuckin’ use ootae this,’ said Max, holding the helmeted Motorcycle Boy by the arm to avoid him falling over a large pot plant.

  Despite his bizarre appearance, Clifford X. Raymonde had a reputation of note in terms of drawing out hidden depths in the recorded performances of many of the individuals who had passed through the tiny collection of rooms in the refurbished first-floor flat at the back of a Chinese Restaurant that now constituted Shabby Road Studios. The studio had begun in the early 70s as a one-room four-track operation in the converted lounge of the flat in which Clifford was living at the time. He had also played in various blues bands throughout that decade, and while never reaching any recognisable levels of national success, most of them were well-regarded locally. Clifford had developed his interest in sound and recording and had invested his earnings from music first into buying the flat, and then furnishing it with basic recording equipment. His interest in experimentation – with sound and with the potential of drug-enhancement – had brought with it equal measures of interest from both musicians and the local drug squad.

  Max Mojo wandered around the six small rooms that now made up the expanded Shabby Road Studios. X-Ray might have been a bizarre old tosser, but he clearly commanded entertainment business respect. Signed photos of Jimmy Savile, Mickie Most, Alexis Korner and – bizarrely – STV’s children’s presenter, Glen Michael, adorned the walls of the fifty-five-year-old producer’s studio. Record sleeves were strewn about, and, despite his young Youth Opportunities Scheme-funded assistant Rhona’s attempts to tidy up, the studio seemed to be in a state of perpetual chaos. But Max knew decent contemporary bands had recorded here. He had heard a rumour from Hairy Doug that Aztec Camera had been to the studio the year before and had spent so much of their money there that they had to hitch a lift back to East Kilbride.

  By the end of the first day, X-Ray had noticed that tensions in the band were being exacerbated by Max’s unpredictable outbursts and unhelpful suggestions. Despite the manager’s interventions, however, the experienced sound man immediately detected something remarkable in the band’s spontaneous jams as they warmed up. Max had advocated bringing in a Hammond organ to bolster a part of the chorus. He had even suggested closing off the pavement outside the Chinese restaurant to allow a small crane to transport one in through the front windows of the flat. He even forced X-Ray to look at a crude line drawing he’d made showing how the windows could be removed to allow the organ’s passage. This was the last straw; X-Ray expelled him from the studio.

  With Max out of the way, X-Ray got to work. He drew out a line of cocaine for each of the band members. The four of them stood in a row in front of his wooden desk like kamikaze pilots about to attain a high level of spiritual training.

  ‘This will relax you all. Get it down ya!’ said X-Ray Raymonde. Predictably, Simon Sylvester stepped up first. He took out a ten-pound note he’d pick-pocketed from Max earlier. He flattened it out and, using the base of his right hand, swept the fine white substance onto it. A bemused X-Ray watched him tilt his head back and attempt to funnel the drugs down into his nostril.

  ‘Ooofffffor fuck’s sake!’ He staggered back, choking, his upper lip sporting a powdery moustache.

  ‘Yer meant tae snort it … ah think,’ said Grant, looking at X-Ray for validation. A slight nod, and then Grant and Maggie promptly followed. They all then looked at the Motorcycle Boy. He took the paper currency. He put his head down, opened his visor, snorted loudly and then coughed. He snapped the visor shut again. The others laughed as he visibly shuddered, then held his thumbs aloft like a faceless Paul McCartney.

  ‘Wow, what a strange cat,’ said X-Ray.

  ‘Ye dinnae fuckin’ ken the half ae it, man,’ said Grant. ‘He caught aggra-phobia aff a hypnotist an’ noo we’ve had tae paint the inside ae that helmet tae look like his fuckin’ bedroom.’

  ‘Boy … that must be real good ching,’ said X-Ray before scooping his rail up with his long, designed-for-the-purpose finger nail. ‘Right … let’s make some magic!’

  An hour later, and The Miraculous Vespas were bouncing around the studio to New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’ being played at eardrum-bursting volume by Colum Crabbe, the studio’s young sound engineer. Simple Minds’ ‘Love Song’ followed, this time with X-Ray joining in with the dancing.

  ‘Are you feeling it?’ screamed X-Ray. ‘Is it in you?’

  ‘Ah want tae be in you?’ Grant yelled in Maggie’s ear. She pulled him away towards X-Ray’s impromptu office. He smiled sagely as he w
atched them go.

  Maggie had smoked dope plenty of times but, like the others, this was her first experience with cocaine. She quickly pulled Grant’s cock into her and arched her back over as far as it would go until her arms reached the base of the cistern. Maggie felt that normal amazing sensation of being filled up as Grant went into her as far as he could, and then the equally wonderful rub as he pulled out. It made her want to be stretched and entered forever. Grant actually felt like he would be able to go on like this forever. He’d never experienced such an energy rush. It was intense. Grant came before Maggie but continued thrusting into her after he’d recovered his stroke, and she soon reached the same heightened state of euphoria.

  ‘Ah fuckin’ love you!’ she said to him.

  ‘Ah fuckin’ love everybody!’ he replied.

  Grant had no idea how long they had been in the toilet. It could’ve been hours, or even days. As it was, forty-five minutes had passed. When they came out, the Motorcycle Boy was battering the drums like Keith Moon and Simon Sylvester was lying on his back singing ‘What a Wonderful World’ into a hand-held microphone.

  ‘Okay, now we’ve loosened up a bit, everybody ready?’ said X-Ray. Grant wondered if he gave this level of personal service to all of his patrons. He began to appreciate why it was called Shabby Road.

  Through the remainder of that afternoon, and the majority of the next day, X-Ray Raymonde experimented with the band and the four songs they had to work with. He was really impressed by ‘The First Picture’, but felt something was missing from their sound. He acknowledged that it would bring him into conflict with the teenage impresario when he returned, as instructed, on the Thursday. Nevertheless, he knew what he was doing. He was now determined to earn the £2,000 fee that he’d chanced his arm in asking for. Using the full range of his eight-track machine, he recorded the rhythm tracks separately. X-Ray normally worked this way; building the backing tracks bit by bit. In a move designed to defuse Max’s likely aggravation, he added a bit of guide organ to the drums, bass and rhythm guitar parts.

  X-Ray got an excitable Maggie to set up her bass drum, snare and hi-hat. Simon Sylvester was told to plug his bass directly into the mixer so they could experiment with a reggae feel for one of the songs.

  It all felt unbelievably inspiring to Grant. He stood by X-Ray’s side as the producer explained why the drums were being ‘bounced’ down to one track, freeing up other tracks for ‘overdubs’.

  Grant recorded his vocals in a number of different ways. He stood, he hunched, he went back into the toilet, and he lay on his back, as Simon – and Marvin Gaye – had once done. The wily producer filtered all of these sounds through his home-made equaliser and compressor units and onto a quarter-inch tape recorder. Once complete, X-Ray mixed each section separately and spliced the parts of quarter-inch tape together manually.

  The old producer had gained Grant’s trust, and now he pounced. Earlier, when Max and the band had assumed X-Ray was attempting to set a Guiness World Record for the longest time taking a shite, he was actually in the toilet hastily drafting a publishing contract for Grant Delgado to sign. The contract was to a subsidiary company – Mondo Bongo Publishing – and, in return for an advance, Grant would receive 65 percent of applicable future songwriting royalties. The remainder went to Mondo Bongo. This seemed like an extremely good deal to Grant when it was explained to him privately by Clifford X. Raymonde. Max hadn’t come back yet, but X-Ray had convinced Grant that since he was, and would most likely remain, the composer of all of the band’s songs, the publishing contract only applied to him. What wasn’t fully explained was the process of royalty payment – or that Grant, in not fully reading the small print – had agreed to the rights to his songs being owned by Mondo Bongo in perpetuity. Grant did persuade X-Ray to subdivide his cut. It was to be 85 percent for Grant and 5 percent each for the others. He felt that was only fair. He had originally intended for Max to receive the same 5 percent but X-Ray persuaded him to drop this. Max would be fine. He’d see to that by helping him with the label. X-Ray conceded the band split, but in highlighting it was highly unusual, said he would only do so if the terms of the contract remained between them at present. The advances were £10,000 for Grant and £1,000 each for the others, but paid only to the others after they had recorded and pressed their first single.

  At the end of three long, wired days, ‘The First Picture’ and new song, ‘Take It, It’s Yours’ had been caught on tape. The other two were left for the time being although X-Ray Raymonde had plans for them. ‘The First Picture’ was The Miraculous Vespas’ opening gambit, and the band and their emotional manager were justifiably proud of it. Grant knew it was a good song. Everyone else did too.

  ‘Really enjoyed that, Max,’ said X-Ray. ‘No hard feelings about earlier, eh?’

  ‘Ah wis’ a bit fuckin’ pissed off, ah huv tae tell ye. Ah thought aboot comin’ back an’ fuckin’ torchin’ the place!’ he admitted with a straight face.

  X-Ray laughed out loud.

  Max Mojo couldn’t understand why he was laughing.

  ‘Look Max,’ he said after the others had gone. ‘I think you might have something pretty special here. Grant’s a great, understated singer and his songs are just wonderful.’

  Max nodded his agreement adding, ‘Aye … so?’

  X-Ray laughed again at what he assumed was simply youthful disdain for experience. X-Ray Raymonde had seen it all before. He had reached an age where he found it charming and endearing. ‘Get him on a contract. Tie him in. And then let’s make a proper record.’ he said.

  Max pondered this.

  ‘If you can prove it’s commercially viable to release an independent record, the sky’s the limit. If anyone can make a record … anyone can have a record label. Make it yourself, sell it yourself … cut out all of the middle men. Keep the profits..!’

  ‘Who gives a fuck aboot the money?’ said Max. ‘We’re no’ doin’ this tae live aff the profits, man!’

  ‘Yeah, you think that now, Max … but just wait until you see where the money goes if you don’t.’

  ‘We dinnae have a fuckin’ record deal yet mate,’ Max admitted, as if this was a major new revelation.

  ‘You’re not hearing me. Put it out yourself, son. You told me your dad was subbing the whole show. Biscuit Tin Records, you said. Well … go for it then! You only live once, Max.’

  Unusually, Max Mojo had nothing to say. His brain was doing somersaults.

  ‘It isn’t really about whether you can do the recording, or manufacture, or distribution yourself. Anybody with a decent inheritance could do that … it’s about a spirit; an attitude. Have you got that?’ pushed X-Ray.

  Max responded to the challenge X-Ray Raymonde had just laid down. He nodded his head furiously. No words were necessary. They shook hands. Although he admired Postcard, Max hadn’t previously thought about self-financed gigs, recordings and promotions. It would certainly cut out some of the planned trips to London. Soon they would have a proper acetate, and Max had intended coercing Grant back south to follow-up on his Morrison Hardwicke/Boy George connections. If they went to London in the New Year, they could now focus on distribution and trying to get it on Radio 1. He was also visualising another Billy Sloan encounter, although he had already resolved that this next one would be in McDonalds.

  Without knowing it, both Clifford X. Raymonde and Max Mojo now had the key to immortality in their hands. They just needed to find the right door.

  37

  24th December 1983

  It was the most content Fat Franny Duncan had been for almost two years. He was sat at the kitchen table in the Ponderosie, surrounded by sheafs of complex paperwork and unopened cardboard boxes. Credit where it was due, he thought. Don McAllister’s predictions about the viability of this new business plan had come to fruition, and at a faster pace than either of them had anticipated. Fat Franny had been permitted to take delivery of a warehouse full of new Philips VCRs. He had then been allowed to dist
ribute these around Onthank and charge a weekly rental for them. Fat Franny could then increase his profits by renting VHS tapes to the same punters. Many of these tapes were being imported from Amsterdam and were pornographic in nature. The ice-cream vans – fronted by Terry Connolly and now also Wullie the Painter – were the distribution mechanisms for the business, with customers ordering titles by number from a monthly updated chart that the local paper boys delivered on their morning rounds. At the end of 1983, around 10 percent of UK households had a VCR. In Onthank – an impoverished, working-class area suffering the worst that Thatcher’s Britain could throw at it – the figure was more than four times the national average. And all of it down to Fat Franny Duncan’s change of business direction.