Silver Ch. 01-02

Removing the Dictaphone from his pocket, Pete laid it flat on the table. 'So tell me Nick, how you did you and Richey first meet?'

Nick took a deep breath and a long swig of beer, recalling the autumn of 1981 when the story began.

Two

No great academic, Nick Walker left school at sixteen with three O-Levels. Following a succession of menial jobs punctuated by bouts of unemployment, somehow at the age of twenty-three he landed up at William Hill in Crossbow Hill, SW London. A mile from the flat, he stayed in the job mainly on account of saving on bus fare. An undemanding job, Nick's daily routine consisted of standing up on a platform to price up the runners' odds, updating them as changes were announced over the Extel system.

With just a few passing acquaintances but no especially close friends, excursions out of the flat after dark were rare. A healthy interest having developed in late Seventies punk and early Eighties new wave, the occasional local gig, invariably alone, offered a fortnightly highlight. In between, Nick would regularly contribute to the letters pages in music magazines, his way of communicating with the world without having to get too close. That inevitably evolved into submitting gig reviews to fanzines that sewed the early seeds of a future career in journalism. And when he wasn't writing, he'd strum tunes on a second-hand electric guitar.

It was a night in September 1981 when life took on a whole new meaning. Drifting in and out of sleep, the lazy tones of John Peel as ever filling the void between home and sleep, suddenly he was shot back to his senses – quite literally. Opening with a volley of machine gun fire, his head was swamped by the same kind of rush as when first hearing 'New Rose' by the Damned, 'White Riot' by the Clash and 'Anarchy In The UK' by the Sex Pistols. This being 1981 with its caricature pop scene, Nick had seriously doubted whether he'd ever hear a song that could move him like those Seventies punk classics. Drawing back the covers in the dark, he blew long and hard, knowing that this was a seminal moment in his life.

'The Thunder Cracks and 'Bullet Brigade', Peel confirmed with an apparent lack of enthusiasm that belied the man's heartfelt passion.

Turning off the radio to prolong the moment and not let some other song contaminate the delicious memory, the tune reprised in Nick's head until eventually sleep got the better. Yet in the morning, like his dreams, the tune was gone, all but for a few ill-remembered lines and the scattered remnants of a chorus. Try as he might, nothing Nick tried could bring the song back to mind.

At the risk of turning up late for work, he scoured the past month's collection of music magazines for a valuable titbit of information about this new and exciting band, repeating their name: 'Thunder Cracks, Thunder Cracks, Thunder Cracks,' over and over like a mantra. Finally, when he'd all but given up, he located a short article in the NME, so small it almost passed him by. Yet it would prove worth the effort for he gleaned the priceless information that the following week the Thunder Cracks would be playing at the Ship, a venue not too far from home. And it got better: they had an LP out. Nick just had to get his hands on it.

Our Price in the High Street was the most likely source, tending to stock the more unusual releases Nick habitually sought, and lunchtime could hardly come quick enough. A two-minute dash, he arrived to witness a denim-jacketed figure in the direct line of his quarry. Of similar age to Nick, a familiar face in here and at some of the gigs Nick had patronised, he exuded the sort of cool, worldly-wise outer confidence Nick lacked, flicking through the racks and digesting the sleeve notes. Dangerously close to the LP Nick sought, its cover peeked out from the front of the 'T' rack, shimmering in bold lettering the words: 'Terracotta Soldiers' and underneath 'The Thunder Cracks'. Leaning over, Nick deftly prised out the album only to be taken aback by the call: 'Oi mate, that's mine.'

An inch or two shorter than Nick's 5'11, he nonetheless radiated an intimidating air. With piercing aquamarine eyes and spiked locks, Nick was reminded of Billy Idol. Pretending not to hear, he bowled over to the counter, single-mindedly determined to complete the purchase. A label on the front bore the legend 'import', so chances were this was the only copy in the shop. With the gig just a week away, he wasn't about to risk losing out on the bounty. Placing down the sleeve whilst groping around for the scrunched-up fiver that nestled in his pocket, a hand snapped down like a mousetrap. 'Oi, I said that's mine.'

Nick glanced up, offering a non-comprehending look and trying to remain aloof as the bemused red-uniformed female assistant looked on, chewing gum. 'It was there in the rack,' Nick reasoned.

'I'd put it aside,' the other remonstrated, 'whilst I was looking for something else.'

Nick frowned. 'Not gonna fight over it, are ya?' enquired the ruminating assistant, her eyes passing back and forth over the pair like a spectator at a tennis match. 'There'll be another copy in soon.'

'How soon is soon?' Nick enquired, unable to conceal the desperation in his tone.

'I dunno...a week or so. You can put it on special order if ya like.'

The other nodded his head as if that was the signal for Nick to hand it over. Yet Nick could see no reason why he should be the one to relinquish. He'd backed down most of his life and was one of life's doormats. When his rival pleaded that he really wanted the LP, it merely made Nick more determined.

'How about tossing a coin?' offered the assistant.

Nick stared back unblinkingly, indicating his consent with a nod. A coin was drawn from the other's pocket and Nick called tails, breath held tight. As the Queen fell, so did his face, prompting a silent curse. Prising the prize from Nick's grip, his rival offered a consolatory expression.

'Arsehole,' mouthed Nick as he sloped off, his contempt kept inaudibly low.

With the rest of the lunch hour wasted traipsing around the other record stores in town in vain pursuit, dejectedly he returned to work. He was still calling his rival names when 5.30 came around. Shuffling home rueing the loss, a raised voice rang out from across the street. Glancing up Nick observed the arsehole from earlier, swinging the red, white and black carrier bag like a trophy. Nick ignored the call, increasing his pace, the other doing likewise as he dodged the traffic to get to Nick. As the footsteps grew louder and more menacing, Nick pulled up, a fist clenched in readiness. 'Here mate, wait,' came the plea from behind.

Nick turned to face the tranquil blue eyes, in stark contrast to his own green-grey ones, clouded with loss. The other held aloft his hands in a show of contrition whilst maintaining a safe distance, unaware that Nick's outer bulk camouflaged a soft centre. Immediately Nick's eyes were drawn to the collar of his adversary's denim jacket, peppered with badges, two of which proclaimed the legend, Thunder Cracks. Following the line of Nick's eyes, he smiled. Unpinning one of the badges, he held it out to Nick who stood motionless, unsure whether it was intended as a peace gesture or a consolation. Before he could decide, the pin was thrust through the collar of the tatty black leather jacket Nick couldn't afford to replace. The good thing about liking punk and new wave was that it was cool to look cheap and cheap to look cool. In Nick's impoverished case, however, clothes were more a necessity than a style.

'I've a blank tape at home. I can do a copy...if you like. 'Haven't I seen you somewhere before?'

Nick allowed the angst to drain. 'Probably at a gig, I'd imagine.'

They discussed recent shows they'd seen, comparing notes and quickly establishing that they had uncannily similar tastes. 'I'm Richey by the way...so can I do you that tape?'

Nick introduced himself, following reluctantly to the shabby upper floor flat in Broad Arch that was ten minutes from his own flat in Crossbow Hill. The cramped bedroom similar in size to his own, its walls were adorned with posters of bands, some of whom Nick recognised, others less familiar. They formed a fierce collage, spitting, strutting and scowling, their eyes seeming to follow him around the room. The Thunder Cracks were well represented up there and no longer did Nick begrudge Richey the LP – quite as much. It was evident Richey was a true fan. Gratefully for Nick, roles weren't reversed with Richey back at his flat, surveying the posters of Queen, Dire Straits and the Police that he hadn't gotten around to changing since his tastes diversified. All of a sudden they seemed the antithesis of cool.

Richey loaded up the cassette hatch before taking the vinyl from its sleeve and palming the edges like a surgeon handling a vital internal organ. Placing the disc on the turntable, he lowered the needle with ultra precision, at the same time activating the red record button, the scratchy sound giving way to the hail of bullets that had first seduced Nick in bed the previous night. From a beanbag beside the bed, he acquainted himself with the band via the sleeve notes: singer Joe Donnelly and lead guitarist Tony Cage, two Ulstermen, drummer Dave Bishop and bassist Spike Sanders, two Londoners.

Donnelly sang a hybrid mix, in one breath attesting to the Troubles in Northern Ireland, as far removed from their trouble-free lives as was imaginable, the next of the more comfortable territory of poverty and failure with girls, subjects Nick could readily relate to. For eighteen minutes he was captivated.

Richey turned over the record, after which he carefully filled in the track names on the white cardboard insert of the cassette. Side two was less immediate though Nick just knew it was going to be a grower and could barely wait to get home and play it through once more. He thanked Richey guiltily, half-apologising for earlier, harbouring a funny feeling arising that they'd be seeing each other again. Not wishing to appear over enthusiastic, he said simply: 'See you around.'

The LP was played solidly in this flat for the next week, the tunes becoming like familiar friends, his life geared around the upcoming gig. Kept awake into the early hours thinking about the band, Nick recited the songs and fantasised about being their guitarist, touring the country with them. Via the electric guitar and his keen ear for music, he was able to work out the chords to several of the songs.

Inevitable that he and Richey would chance upon each other at the gig at the Ship, they were both alone, of course, for their respective pals had no wish to support a band that sang of terrorist bombs and sectarian violence. Though that sweeping assertion was to miss the point totally for these songs were revealed as anthems of hope, suffering and a longing for peace, the likes of which no other band of their generation had come close to. Hearing them live simply intensified the sense of doom and lost hope. Rarely had punk sounded so good, let alone second generation Eighties punk.

As the pub cleared of satisfied punters, it was Richey that made the first move by offering a drink. Up to that point they'd stood their ground, neither willing to acknowledge the other's presence with anything other than a sly glance. The initial seeds of friendship were sown when Nick felt compelled to buy one back as they eulogised on the gig. More alike than they realised, Richey too was bumming around in a job he loathed, a desk clerk at the local council. The best part, however, was that as two of a select audience, unlike every other band of in the country at the time, the Thunder Cracks belonged to them – for a while at least.

* * *

Nick looked up at Pete Collins. 'And that was how I first met Richey.'

'I've never heard that story before. Here, let me buy you another,' offered the writer, eyes wondrous.

Nick thought he shouldn't really have another but accepted regardless, surprised that he was enjoying the chance to reminisce quite so much. Bottled up for so many years, the release was akin to loosening a tight belt. Something was bothering him though, something that didn't quite add up. Turning inquisitor, he enquired: 'So Mr Collins, why the Speeding Hearts? Why not U2? Or Oasis? Or any other band for that matter?'

Pete scratched his chin. 'I guess you could say it's personal.'

'Hmm, I figured as much. It's in the eyes, if you don't mind my saying. The light hair threw me at first but it's bleached, right?'

Pete flicked at the shoulder length straggles. 'Yeah...and Collins is my mother's name. Had my father married her, my surname would be...'

Nick completed the sentence: 'Madden,'

As Pete nodded, Nick took a mouthful of beer, surveying the young man opposite, flicking his eyelids quickly to expel the moist gathering. Pete smiled before entreating: 'So I know how you met Richey, but how did you meet my father?'

Nick's mind wandered back to 1981.

* * *

After two more Thunder Cracks' gigs had cemented their friendship, Nick and Richey became inseparable. When one of them mused that 'if they can do it so can we,' and when Richey mentioned the songs he'd written and Nick the electric guitar he possessed, the idea of forming a band followed closely behind. Forming a band – three words had rarely sounded so sweet to Nick.

They decided on the name the Speeding Hearts after a line in the Thunder Cracks' ode to unrequited love, 'Punch Drunk'. After that was decided they set about discussing the dynamics of the group they perceived: a quartet similar to their heroes the Thunder Cracks, with Richey singing and playing acoustic guitar, Nick on lead guitar and backing vocals, with a bass player and a drummer. But with former friends having been discarded like Nick's old posters, they would need to look outside their immediate circle for the missing links. Returning to Our Price, this time as firm friends, the card in the window read: 'Wanted, bassist and drummer for punk / new wave band; Pistols, Clash, Thunder Cracks; must be keen and willing to tour.'

Following a dozen auditions of varyingly poor quality during the winter of 1981, the Madden brothers, Vaughn and Kirk, were drafted in. Laid-back in style to the point of being comatose, they possessed an endearing quality Nick took to immediately, the elder, Vaughn, tending to act as the mouthpiece for both, Kirk speaking only when addressed. Though their mops of unruly black greasy hair, rubbery lips, personal hygiene and acne would win no beauty contests, they held several advantages over the others that came by to audition.

First, they had the requisite instruments: Kirk the battered bass, emblazoned with Clash, Jam and Sex Pistols stickers, Vaughn the abused yet serviceable drum kit, seemingly held together by masking tape. Second, they were into the same music, big Thunder Cracks' fans. Third, they lived just around the corner, equidistant from Nick and Richey. And fourth, they shared a similar sense of humour Nick and Richey had quickly discovered they had in common.

Equally as fed up with their jobs, Vaughn was an idle postman that found it tough to get out of bed in the morning whilst Kirk was a flatulent warehouseman that hated lifting heavy weights. If and when the opportunity arose, neither would need much persuasion to chuck in their jobs. In no time at all the quartet became a tight unit, rehearsing with a verve, energy and passion that belied their ability. A quick learner with a good, albeit untrained, ear for music, Nick was deftly able to pick up the tunes from Richey's hummed melodies, often adding a personal touch and crafting the abstract ideas in Richey's head into tangible songs.

No musical geniuses either, Vaughn and Kirk did what they did efficiently and, six months of solid practicing later, augmented by six of Richey's and two of Nick's songs, they were ready to inflict themselves upon the music world. All they needed was the right break.

Flicking through the latest edition of the NME in Richey's bedroom, Vaughn became suddenly animated though electing to read aloud in his usual monotone: 'New Wave favourites the Thunder Cracks are looking for an unsigned local band to support their forthcoming UK tour. Demo tapes should be sent to Ted Perry c/o the Ship, Crossbow Hill, south west London. The best five demos will be selected to compete in a Battle of the Bands competition, date to be advised...'

Stunned silence filled the air until Kirk, who had become a little more talkative as familiarity blossomed, punched the air with a whoop, quickly followed by a wet-sounding fart. When the air had cleared, they took stock of this God-given opportunity. Not only was this offer a chance to gain a foothold in the music scene, but to tour with their idols.

The following day they clubbed together to pay for an hour at a recording studio in Camden Town, putting down a quartet of songs: 'The Outsider', 'No Place To Hide', 'Forever Nineteen' and 'Edge Of Town'. Playing those first two songs in a proper studio environment gave the quartet a massive buzz, all agreeing that they had the feel of singles in waiting. Leaving the studio, Nick's pessimism brought them back down to earth: 'Now all we have to hope is that all the other bands are crap.'

'There'll be hundreds, won't there?' Kirk sighed.

'Thousands probably,' added Nick.

'Fuck it,' cried Kirk. 'We sounded good too.'

'Yep, but we've no chance. There are bound to be others better than us,' added Nick despondently, 'with more experience and better credentials.'

Vaughn scratched his chin. 'Perhaps not,' he said cryptically.

The others regarded him sceptically before he clarified: 'The Ship is on my morning round. Maybe a few of those cassettes might just go missing...'

* * *

Enchanted like a small child being regaled by a bedtime story, Pete Collins smiled stupidly at Nick's recollections. 'Maybe you shouldn't put that in your book,' suggested Nick. 'Though I suppose it was twenty-five years ago, and it's not like confessing to an unsolved murder or anything. Actually I bet most of our rivals are long dead by now anyway. Still, I guess I owe an apology to the Fags, the Flags the Lags, the Scumbags, the Mud Flaps, the Wasters, the Craters, the Cortinas, the Swamp Dogs and all the others that never really stood a chance, thanks to your uncle's initiative.'

Suddenly their solitude was broken, the call of 'Dad,' ringing out from across the bar. Both men glanced up, espying two girls in their mid twenties. Enamoured with pretty faces and great bodies, they could easily have been mistaken for sisters. Pete blew appreciatively on his lips as they strode over.

'Pete, this is my daughter Debra...and this is her friend Kelly.'

'Hello Nick,' said Kelly Wood, a bubble haired brunette with a gorgeous pout, catching the kind of look from Pete she was well accustomed to.

The writer rose to order more drinks whilst Nick explained to the girls why he was out on a midweek lunchtime: 'Pete's writing a book about the band.'

'Fame at last?' mused Debra.

Nick played it down, quickly changing the subject. 'So, how's business?' he enquired.

'Yeah great,' Debra replied, the two instantly engaging in father / daughter conversation.

'So, what do you do, Kelly?' Pete enquired as he took a seat.

'I'm, um, a journalist,' Kelly replied with blushed cheeks.

Eavesdropping, Debra nearly spat her drank across the table. 'Kelly writes for a, ahem, well known men's magazine,' Debra elucidated.

'Debra!'

'Well it's true.'

Kelly fanned her face. 'Okay, okay, it is true. I write the 'Kelly's Eye' column in 'Swagger'.'

'Oh I've read that...' began Pete, before biting his tongue.

The collective peal of laughter caused him to redden too. Glancing up, the look Kelly offered his way made him quiver. The girl was utterly gorgeous. Not only that, if his memory served him well from having read her magazine column, she was pretty sexually uninhibited too.