Monday, June 27, 2005

Two

Neil Spencer had been a fucking nightmare on the long car journey from Torquay to London. Even Blunkett found it pretty hard to tolerate him after they'd been thrown out of the third motorway service station. He’d also been sick in the car after taking too big a swig of methadone, which he’d blagged from one of his fuck-up girlfriends; it stank!

Still, they were here now and Mike had to admit that things were looking good. The squatted venue was filling up steadily with filthy looking down-and-out hippy punks here to freak out to the extreme power electronics on offer. There were a few studenty-looking types too, and some people in their forties and fifties. It was a cool mix of people. Three bands had already played: Heartraper, The Ambulance Chasers and Dog Fuck Rubber. They'd all acquitted themselves pretty well and D.F.R. had made a bit of an impression with their projected Super 8 films of forcible lobotomies and electric shock treatments.

Mike and Dave were both enjoying themselves. Nothing like this ever happened in sleepy Torquay! They swigged from cans of strong lager and swapped tasteless jokes, looking forward to playing their third ever gig in a couple of hours' time. Meanwhile, Neil Spencer was in the makeshift ladies' toilets on the seedy premises. He was slipping it to some girl called Marie he’d approached outside the bogs half an hour before. She'd kept talking to him about transgression and genius porridge or something. His booze and drug-addled brain didn't understand a word of it. What he did know was that she was wearing a leather miniskirt, fishnet tights, and had fucking nice tits.

He’d somehow managed to get into her knickers and her pink mohican was quivering. As he shot his disease-riddled load into her pierced and shaved twat, Hitler Rally's waiting period seemed to pass very quickly, and as Mike looked at his digital watch to see the time become 8.00, Blunkett nudged him and said "This lot are finished - we're on next!" Karpvoid were already packing up after a disappointing set of mostly instrumental noise, with a few samples of babies screaming thrown in. It should be a fucking piece of piss to top that bunch of tossers, thought Blunkett arrogantly as he wheeled on the swastika contraptions which had been hidden at the side of the stage. Mike set up his sound-generating equipment, noting mentally that the PA man in this gaff was already complaining and seemed a bit unused to power electronics gigs. Someone eventually found Neil Spencer in a pool of his own blood and vomit and informed him to get his arse onstage as the Hitler Rally was about to start.

Mike, amused despite himself, told Spencer "Stand in front of this keyboard and don’t touch anything!" Spencer growled in a deranged manner, rolled his glassy eyes and said something incomprehensible but foul-sounding. The tape that was playing of 23 Skidoo was eventually halted at a hand signal from Blunkett. Without preamble Hitler Rally blasted into action. Mike Read frantically fiddled with oscillators and other esoteric electronic equipment as the hall filled with hideous piercing sounds of wailing torment. Blunkett growled "I am a man, I’m better than a woman" over this cacophony. "I am a rapist and you deserve it, you bitch!"

Spencer tried to stand upright and failed, but not before managing to lob a beer bottle or two at the enthusiastic crowd. As they launched into the second number Mike permitted himself a smile. The crowd were going apeshit at the obvious commitment and passion, that Hitler Rally were putting into their sound. And they've not even seen our rotating swastikas yet, he thought. These remained still covered with rough curtain material until their ultra right-wing anthem 'Aryan Supremacy' began. Now, as Dave screamed out the despicable paedophiliac lyrics to 'Kidsnuff’ he was starting on the audience baiting for real. "Fuck her and kill her in the sandpit!" he screamed, into a young girl's face before slapping her right cheek with the palm of his left hand as hard as he could.

The song dragged on, as did the distressing wail of tortured noise equipment, as Blunkett catalogued every sick thought about children held ever dredged up from the darkest sewers of his mind into the microphone, making sure this litany of perversion was as audible as possible. He tried to find the most vulnerable, scared and alone-looking people in the 400-strong crowd - mostly girls but a few young lads too - and he singled them cut for physical attack. Such was his charisma that he remained unchallenged by any disgruntled boyfriends or feminists.

The PA man who the Deathcamp Festival organisers had hired, Pete Powell, was thoroughly fed up. The music certainly wasn't his cup of tea - he preferred the classic rock sounds of Eric Clapton, Rory Gallagher and the like - but he could cope with it and he was being well-paid. What was pissing him off was that he couldn't get the memory of the funeral he’d attended that morning out of his head. His grandmother had been 82 but was still a proud and independent woman up until the moment of the sudden massive stroke which mercifully had killed her almost instantly. She had been born in the Warsaw ghetto, and never let anyone forget the struggle she had gone through to stay alive. As an inmate at Bergen-Belsen she had been lucky to survive the war to say the least. She'd refused to have her tattooed number removed after she settled in England.

Pete liked to think she kept it as a constant reminder of her past, as a kind of badge of her noble endurance. This was what was going through Pete Powell's mind as Dave Blunkett unfurled the curtains at the sides of the stage and plugged in the rotating swastikas.

Hitler Rally plunged into their Nazi anthem and Mike abused his sound generators with fresh vigour, while Neil had rallied and was now spitting into the mouths of people in the front row, who were unwisely gawping at the admittedly impressive sight of the giant wooden swastikas which were
spinning rapidly.

As Blunkett ranted his hate-filled message of violence and anti-Semitism, Pete Powell felt his blood begin to boil. His poor old gran.and all she'd been through... and this cunt screaming "Kill the Jewish scum!"... Pete felt a lightning strike of white-hot anger course through his mind. "RIGHT" he thought, and before even bothering to turn off the PA he strode purposefully through the crowd of punk scumbags, pushing them aside as he tried to reach the stage to give these arseholes a good kicking. He was into karate, had been in a few punch-ups in his time and reckoned he could hammer these weedy-looking sickos. The only one of them who locked a bit handy was too pissed to cope with the righteous anger of the infuriated Powell.

Blunkett saw what was coming. He bellowed "Reopen Auschwitz!" as loud as he could before swiftly throwing the lighter fluid onto each swastika in turn and chucking the lit matches. The gig was going to come to a premature but spectacular end, he’d realised.

The crowd began to panic at the sight of the flames and except for a few diehard extremist sensation-seekers, they began to scatter and make for the back of the venue. Powell was suddenly isolated in front of Blunkett and couldn't deliver the surprise blow he’d intended. Instead, Dave smashed the PA man on the bonce with his microphone, moving with lightning reflexes. Powell slumped onto the ground and was quickly surrounded by a crowd of evil looking power electronics fans. In the confusion the truly sadistic instincts of Neil Spencer took over. He slid off the stage and as a flurry of fists and boots rained on the hapless PA man, he removed a long thin blade from one of his foul-smelling army surplus boots.

Jim Whale, who'd been sent under much protest by his editor at the NME to cover this event, was at that moment making for the exit as swiftly as he could. God knows held been expecting something dodgy but this Hitler Rally thing took the biscuit. Was he ever going to have a big story or next week's issue!