May 1984

The first song he played them was great. But the second song was incredible. They all knew it. X-Ray Raymonde was initially speechless. Max was in tears. The Sylvester brothers both hugged Grant Delgado after he had finished playing them the demo. Even Maggie wasn’t immune. Their break-up had sent him into a bit of tailspin. He’d retreated to the flat and, in dopey bursts of reflection his creative juices had burst their banks. Several songs had been written for – and about – her, but their deceptively simple lyrics all aimed at a collection that Grant envisaged to be a universal celebration of the miraculous resonance of love. Grant had gone back to Shabby Road and had taped these demos with the young studio engineer’s help. ‘The First Picture’ was a fantastic record but now, listening to a rough cut of the song entitled ‘It’s a Miracle’, Max immediately understood why it hadn’t broken the band nationally. Both of these two new songs sounded contemporary and familiar, traditional and unique all at the same time. But it was Grant’s voice that demonstrated the biggest surprise. Where only six months ago he had sounded artfully fragile and frail, he now sang with a sighing, richly melodic croon.

He played more. All of the new songs that Grant had written were amazing. They were a leap forward in depth, complexity and lyrical dexterity far greater than any of them could’ve hoped for. Max was ecstatic. He asked for Grant to play ‘It’s a Miracle’ again.

‘Holy fuck, ya cunt! That’s like … fuckin’ ‘Penny Lane’, ‘Suspicious Minds’ and ‘Hand in Glove’ aw mixed th’gither, or somethin’.’

It was astonishing. But it was also incredibly simple. It had long notes and longer intervals, and the chorus went up, as opposed to some indie songs having down-turned minor-chord progressions. Max lifted his eye patch and wiped both eyes.

‘It’s great, son. It really is,’ said X-Ray Raymonde. ‘That other one, ‘Beautiful Mess’, was it? That’s fantastic as well. Once we’ve got a bigger multi-tracked backing on Miracle, it’ll sound unbelievable. Like a Phil Spector record with guitars.’

‘Maggie, whit dae you think?’ asked Grant.

‘Ah really love it, Grant … both of them,’ she said quietly. ‘Really.’

He had made her happy, at least for the time that the tape was playing. Grant reckoned that would be enough for now. He had missed her more than he could have imagined, but that longing had fuelled the clutch of unpolished songs that would become The Miraculous Vespas’ first LP. He too had known ‘It’s a Miracle’ was a brilliant song. It had a deliberately trite and clichéd title, but that belied its sureness of touch and its timeless coolness. It had come to him late at night, as he sat on the hard floor of the flat, sketching out chords and dreaming of what Maggie was doing at that moment. Loneliness and isolation were the context. A muse is a powerful and potent force of creativity. But it can also be most effective when it’s just out of reach. In the moment that ‘It’s a Miracle’ was born, Grant knew Maggie was his.

‘Sing it for us noo, man,’ said the Motorcyle Boy.

‘Aw’right. Here goes.’ Grant started strumming:

Max had already decided, on advice from X-Ray Raymonde, to delay the release of ‘It’s a Miracle’. The veteran held the view that even great songs could get as lost in the mush of novelty holiday beach songs of the Costa del Sol as they were in the pre-Christmas rush. Max saw the logic in this. Early August was the target. It gave them time to plan a campaign of sorts. With Geoff Travis’s distribution network, Max had already planned for a pressing of 5,000.

The bank account was being replenished at an impressive rate by Washer, without any real constraints on its outgoings. Max simply assumed that Washer trusted his judgement. The band’s new accountant – whose task it was to formulate all this financial chicanery into tax statements – was less convinced. But since he too was now a small shareholder, he was firmly holding his tongue.

Another shareholder was Frankie Fusi. Max liked Frankie but the shared interest in the band was something insisted upon by Washer. Washer had given Frankie the role of tour manager, but this essentially meant ensuring nothing happened to Max Mojo when the band was away from Ayrshire. Given where the investment in the band was actually coming from, he also knew that the oblivious investors would ultimately become conscious investors. Frankie Fusi alone wouldn’t withstand the might of Malachy McLarty’s mob, but until Don McAllister’s squad began hoovering up the debris, it would have to suffice.

Violence on their first tour outside of their hometown never seemed far away. The cheek-by-jowl proximity of the band to their audience in these small, sweaty, claustrophobic venues seemed to positively illicit aggression, as if it was the essential component of a great night out. Pay your money, hear some decent music, get bladdered, spit on – and fight with – the band; a night to remember and tell your kids about. Grant would come off stage every night, his face and hair soaked in saliva, beer and – when the beer was finished – the urine of others. The first time this happened, at a hastily arranged gig in Glasgow’s Rock Garden, Grant had walked off stage after two songs. The band weren’t paid. Max had to cajole Grant into continuing night after night. The manager reasoned that every band on the rise gets heckled, but only the really unlucky ones get hepatitis.

The biggest gig of The Miraculous Vespas’ short career so far occurred in the middle of the month. It was at Tiffany’s in Sauchiehall Street. Max had been contacted – by Billy Sloan no less – to ask if he’d consider opening for the intriguingly named The Jesus & Mary Chain, who were part of a Radio Clyde week-long showcase of new bands. The evening was an open one, but Billy had made it clear that the hall would be packed with London-based A&R men, record distributors and various producers.

It was a great opportunity, even though they were way down the undercard. The band spent the afternoon of their big test at a nearby Glasgow ten-pin bowling alley. X-Ray Raymonde had provided some Columbian marching powder, and Simon Sylvester brought the accompanying vodka. By the time they were due on stage, the band – with the honourable exception of the Motorcycle Boy – were hammered. They stumbled onto the famous Tiffany’s boards. They had all watched amazed as Bono from U2 clambered all over the speaker columns here just months earlier. This realisation seemed to get them. During the first song, Maggie fell off her drum stool. During the second number, Simon Sylvester staggered over to his brother’s guitar amps and disconnected his guitar. The normally cool and calm Grant Delgado spotted someone at the side of the stage making a ‘wanker’ motion towards him. Instead of ignoring it, the chemically aggravated frontman vaulted off the stage and another mass brawl started. Max Mojo meanwhile had jumped onstage and continued singing Grant’s lyrics. The Miraculous Vespas managed the four songs they were invited to perform, although the final one was delivered without a lead guitar part – since the Motorcycle Boy couldn’t find the hole to plug in his instrument – and with a different singer from the one they began with.

In the dressing room afterwards, X-Ray Raymonde said it was the greatest gig he’d ever seen, and they all dissolved into fits of pissed, hiccupping laughter.

The band was travelling around the West of Scotland in Jimmy Stevenson’s increasingly rancid van. He’d decided that cleaning it nightly was pointless, and that booking it in for a total valet at the end of the tour – paid for by Max – was the best plan. Jimmy did worry that the lingering smell of Simon Sylvester’s farts might never be removed, though.

Three nights later, The Miraculous Vespas finally supported Orange Juice. Prior to the gig, the refined Orange Juice entourage invited their support out for dinner, where they looked on in astonishment as The Miraculous Vespas drank the finger bowls and ate all of the relish, assuming it to be their starter.

Beyond these occupational hazards, the only other notable incident in The Miraculous Vespas’ summer mini-tour of Scotland, 1984, was self-inflicted. The band had just played Fat Sam’s in Dundee. Bored with being stuck in budget, cell-like hotel rooms night after night, while the band went out drinking post gig, the Motorcycle Boy broke into a vending machine and stole twenty Bic lighters. He was sharing a squalid double room in Dundee city centre with his brother, who had earlier skelped him with his bass. Simon Sylvester argued that it was accidental but a fight had broken out between the brothers on the tiny stage at Fat Sam’s. Frankie Fusi had been forced to intervene, and Grant had to finish the gig solo.

The band returned to the hotel around two am, and Simon Sylvester’s screams woke everyone on the second floor. Unable to sleep, the Motorcycle Boy had spent half an hour heating the metal door handle from the inside by holding the flame of the Bic lighters under it. Simon Sylvester was taken to Ninewells Hospital with severe burns to four fingers and the palm of his hand. The band returned to Ayrshire having cancelled the remaining three dates, and also the planned recording sessions for July.

Max Mojo fined the Motorcycle Boy. Despite previous threats, it was his first ever act of managerial discipline.

With Simon Sylvester unable to play or rehearse, Max Mojo gave the band an official week off. Like a shop steward negotiating terms, the stricken bass player ensured that it would be ‘paid’ leave for all but his brother before he would accept on behalf of the other, more ambivalent members of the band. Max acceded. The brothers stayed at home in Caprington. Simon was glad of the opportunity to stay in his bed until mid-afternoon, while the Motorcycle Boy spent the majority of the week holed up in the garage teaching himself how to play the piano.

There was a fragile armistice between Grant and Maggie. His new songs had melted her heart. She knew they were about her, and that through the lyrics he was attempting to tell her how sorry he was. But he had crossed a line from which there was normally no return. Maggie found it so hard to open up to people, especially males. She had to remind herself that there were almost five years between them. He was, in many ways, still just a daft wee boy. That alone might have been the end of it, but every time she made that decision in her mind, she found something that reminded her that he was capable of genuine sensitivity; of saying exactly the right thing at the right time. Like now, when he suggested they go away for a few days … to get a change of scenery; to allow their relationship to heal and renew itself. Where did he get these arcane but beautiful terms? she thought. She agreed, packed up the van and told no one at home where she was going, mainly because she didn’t actually know. Grant wanted it to be a surprise.

They had driven the thirty-five miles to Largs in relative silence. Apart from Maggie making a remark about the Hunterston Power Station on the Firth of Clyde becoming a nuclear target because of the reckless way Ronald Reagan was acting, the only sound was from the Campervan’s cassette player. Grant had brought along a homemade C90 with Prince’s Purple Rain on one side, and Echo and the Bunnymen’s Ocean Rain on the other. Since it was likely to rain for the majority of their time away, Grant thought the underlying theme was appropriate.

They stopped for ice cream at Nardini’s. Maggie marvelled at the Art Deco frontage of the famed parlour. She described it as quaint, a word Grant hadn’t heard before. He wrote it down in his notebook for future use. Maggie wanted to look for a souvenir shop where she might be able to buy a picture postcard featuring the building to show her mums, both of them. Grant said she wouldn’t need it. He gave her a package. It was a rectangular box wrapped up in an unused promotional flyer Max had made for the ‘First Picture’ single. Grant had insisted they drop it due to what he felt was a lapse in taste, even for Max Mojo. It read: THE FIRST PICTURE: DON’T DIE OF IGNORANCE.

The poster replicated the stone-cut graphics from the frightening Government Public Health campaign about AIDS. Maggie unwrapped the gift slowly. It was a camera; her first camera. She kissed him tenderly, took it out of the box and with Grant’s help, loaded film and batteries into it. She took her first picture, the classic landmark frontage of a North Ayrshire tourist institution. In return, Maggie gave him the tiny gold-coloured ring from her finger. It fitted his right pinky finger. He knew it wasn’t valuable, but that it meant a lot to Maggie.

Maggie Abernethy had never been on a ferry before. She was excited about the prospect of staying on an island, even though Grant had informed her that thousands of Glaswegians would be sharing it with them. It didn’t matter to Maggie. She was looking at this tiny lump of rock called Bute through a different lens from all the others who had sailed to it ‘doon the watter’ from the big city. She was also looking at Grant differently now too. He had told her repeatedly how sorry he had been about following her and eventually she’d assured him that it was forgotten.

Prince sang about the ‘Beautiful Ones’ and it seemed too coincidental for it not to be about a young couple from Kilmarnock on the very edge of their dreams becoming reality. Later that night, they were in the Campervan facing the narrow stretch of water they had earlier crossed. Maggie lay on her front, Grant on his back, blowing smoke rings. He reminisced fondly about the only other time he’d been here; to Rothesay, the tiny principal town on the Isle of Bute.

He’d come with his family around 1972. It was the only holiday they had ever gone on together. He recalled Senga laughing, and his dad being funny – Hobnail dramatically running down the promenade chasing a ping-pong ball blown away from a ludicrous outdoor table-tennis game for the umpteenth time. They were happy in these recollections. They laughed and talked to each other. It was all so different when they were back at home. Grant used to wonder how many actual words had been uttered in the Onthank terraced house they all shared. At times it felt like days could pass without one word being expressed. These passages usually ended with the smashing of crockery. Then there would be too many words, all loudly and aggressively delivered like targetted weapons, aimed to do as much emotional damage as possible.

Grant Delgado loved words but sometimes he’d felt that they didn’t love him back. He flipped the cassette. The mood changed. Ian McCulloch now set the tone. It was Maggie’s turn at the confessional. She said Annie – her eighth foster mum – was the only person she had ever really trusted. They were very similar. Headstrong and controlling, and likely to explode without any prior warning, but deep down both were very loving. Maggie couldn’t imagine her real mum ever being as protective or nurturing. It had been Annie who had encouraged her to try and find out about her past and, particularly, her dad. Annie had been concerned at how Maggie invented past histories for herself, according to her mood, her level of boredom, or her desire to be duplicitous. Maggie had remained with Annie when she was eighteen, even though she had been expected to move out and start adult life independently. Annie had formed a real bond with this beautiful, but belligerent teenager. Experience told her that, like many kids who’ve moved around, from one destination to the next, Maggie was essentially rootless. Annie feared that she’d simply drift, and most probably into the dark corners of society. But Maggie was funny, and clever, and creative. Beyond the striking looks, she was different in so many other ways to the thirty or so kids Annie had already cared for. Sometimes Annie felt guilty in admitting that Maggie’s beauty made her feel more disposed to protect her than the other, less distinctive kids. But Annie knew there was nevertheless some truth in this. So Annie arranged for her to stay on.

That was almost five years ago. Neither had regretted it but Annie had persuaded Maggie to find out more about her real mum, as the only way to address her future.

Maggie told Grant what she now knew; the painful, difficult truths about her real father’s violent death, and the psychological effect it had on her real mother. Finally, Maggie wiped her face and smiled at Grant. ‘So there … ye ken it aw noo,’ she said. ‘Still interested?’ Grant didn’t answer. He simply pulled her close and held her even more tightly. They lay fully clothed on top of the Campervan’s bed, in silence and staring up at the brilliant full shape of the killing moon. Grant pondered how unique it was for all four band members to have lost parents in tragic circumstances. Without them really being aware of it, The Miraculous Vespas had become a substitute family for all of them, maybe as dysfunctional and confrontational as the ones from which they’d joined it.