Z MURKY MELANGE OF FLAWLESS RAPPORT

ZAL ON FRAMED

Those relentless soulful days, followed by the grim, iron–fisted riffs… fuckin’ great!If he had uttered those words a day or two before, Z would have offered himself a simple, restrained smile. And then SAHB came along and immediately he caught sight of himself falling into the weird workings of some monstrous machine…

One thing though was for sure. It was the kind of moment that filled you with intense delight. A murky mélange of flawless rapport and salubrious union that just oozed fun. It was a concoction as fantastic as the senses.

Though he understood the real world perfectly well, its virtues and its abundant clues, Alex always gave the impression he wasn’t interested in being safe and sorry; and he wouldn’t let self–pity mess up his innate, recaptured sense of denial. Easier, he thought, to abide by the sexier path of deprivation.

And that’s exactly how Framed opens with its title track: a senile blues adaptation of the Leiber and Stoller classic of the late 50s, Alex revelling in the theatrics of the pre–nuclear story line. Adulatory solo, complete with the old frozen–finger finish; a snail–paced riff and a bruising, nightclub ending.

Hammer Song announces itself with what is still a fine mood swing. Our new version is purely for those of a nervous disposition.

Midnight Moses roars into life like a rampant bluenose, the iron–fisted riff again rearing its rosy head. ‘Can you play this riff?’ he said. ‘What, this riff?’ Z battered it out. Almost immediately Alex was bouncing in an elegant pair of black brothel creepers, guitar tucked up in the stramash, swaying from side to side like the seventh son. Which reminds me of the time I watched his lordship, clambering through the pines, guitar slung over his back, aimed at serenading a likely–looking daughter and her daughter. He looked keen enough for a three-day cross-country skiing event.

Isobel Goudie is the song of everyone’s youth. Hunting lads on the prowl for something approach–ing a cross between your pork–bellied granny and the loins of eternal youth. Authenticity as to its origins unfold through the track’s overall edginess and production arrangement. If Tear Gas fans hated Alex, this would do him exactly fuck–all good in trying to conquer their apoplexy.

Buff’s Bar Blues is what inspired us all in the first place, especially Alex. Tear Gas again set up the ideal backdrop to a joyfully sub–academic lyric from Alex. Z was thinking, maybe this old cunt can still sing…

I Just Wanna Make Love To You… Try to imagine things were changing by this point. Business, until now uneasy, suddenly becomes a thing of delight. Playing on tracks like this, with Alex’s mates in the horn section, was a fine lesson indeed. Our confidence was overflowing and the doom and gloom became a pale, haphazard memory…

Mountain gave us a big break. There were posters and pleasure domes, pages of fame – and pressed silver and gold plated platters. They gave you that initial feeling of success – anyone who saw them immediately assumed you were rich and famous. The discs cost about five krim each. What they spelled out though, what was written on them, gives the game away: in terms of record sales their value was in excess of a million krim.

The Big Mountain…

So there you have it, in the final chase, as the song says. Some shit, eh? And I suppose songs like Hole In Her Stocking and Big Louie didn’t always convince you the path would be paved with sweat–encrusted maidens wallowing at your feet. But then, the likes of St Anthony made up for those less inspired moments and kept us on our toes, interested.

Anyway, the janitor was paid. The tarts were despatched, in sequence, at a place of their choosing; they actually thanked us. And we drove all the way in this lashing rain, into a tyrant’s night, when everything starts to get funny and blurred at the edges and suddenly it becomes silent and still.

It was Nightmare City! A headline gig. Things were happening fast. And thoughts of rationing out a fiver a week were quickly replaced with discussions about musical direction and what colour of hair to choose, like articulate animals trying to encounter something bewildering. It set the pulses racing to glimpse at what until now had only been part of the imagination. We enteredthe city terrified of nothing, as gangs must sometimes feel.. It was time to get dressed up. Smothered in bravado and a blend of morose poses and disarming grimaces, Z took to it like a duck to buns.

We found a hotel near Rent–a–rectum Square, Peregrine and Meredith banging on the walls every night. It was suitably close to the Mountain. Alex looked hell–bent on survival and livened things up with the occasional bare–knuckle barbecue down the Speakeasy.

Every day we joined the other insects, lined up by the entrance as part of a team working to excavate the Rock Drill, taking turns to pass the scalding earth back through a small opening that was now only a few steps from the core itself. The work made us a strong unit and no matter where we found ourselves, we still remained the boys from SAHB…