Gil and Nixon, back at the 100 Club, five years previously, were about to undergo a life changing moment. For better or worse, the pair, during those few hours, would become indelibly marked by the evening's events, and over twenty five years later, one could say that the effects were still present in the way that they had both chosen to live their lives.
At around ten past nine, Iggy and the Stooges' Gimme Danger faded away, and the distinctive, pulsing intro to Faith Healer cut in. Nixon was sure the volume had gone up. The menacing, hypnotic rhythm had stirred something in the crowd, as faces craned towards the stage. A sudden movement of bodies over on the far side, caught their attention. It reminded Nixon of a boxer's entrance towards the ring. Two, heavily built roadies, were carving a space through the crowd, followed by the band.
Three figures mounted the stage. Being on the left side, Gil and Nixon caught site of Damon England first. Dressed in a baggy white vest, and black leather waistcoat, he moved towards his amp, and reached behind for his guitar. He slung the instrument over his shoulder, played one chord, and let it ring for a couple of seconds. Without moving his left hand holding the chord, his right hand reached down towards the single volume knob on his battered, mustard yellow, Les Paul Junior. Suddenly the sound was enormous.
Perfectly in time with the record still playing, Damon cut in with the jagged chords, that made this Alex Harvey track such a great intro....dank a danka daaaah........ brilliant. Another eight bars followed, then bass and drums simultaneously came to life. Clifford Cooke and Michel Black, face to face. Michel, back to audience, neither looking at their instruments. Damon hadn't moved, oblivious of the other two. He stared, with a vague smile, into the crowd, directly in front of Gil and Nixon. Without looking at anyone in particular, it had the Mona Lisa effect, that they were the personal recipient of his attentions. It was a neat trick, and created an intimacy that made a connection with the band even stronger. They were not just spectators, they were in on it.
Gil suddenly felt a bump against his shoulder, which pushed him against the pillar to his right side. A small figure darted past him, and up onto the stage. It was Marrat. A white collarless shirt, frill down the front, half open and cuffs trailing. Shiny black monkey boots, tight leather jeans and a wide leather belt, sporting a Matchless chrome buckle. He made straight for centre stage, and yanked the mike from its single pole stand. In his right hand, he carried a small, foot long riding crop. His left hand was bent over acutely at the wrist. A shiny black, tight fitting glove gave it the look of a dummy hand, but also drew attention towards his snarling face.
“Let me put my hands on you.....Let me put my hands on yoooou !”
Then they were away...the mid tempo menace of Faith Healer had been used to maximum effect as a fantastic call to arms for the converted. It had lasted barely a minute, gradually usurping the groove of the original track, to the point where, once Marrat had uttered his opening refrain, the record had completely disappeared, replaced by a even louder wall of sound from the band alone. With a split second pause, and a one word “Alors!” the tempo ramped up into the opening Riders song, Aux Armes, French titled, but sung in English, except for the elongated chorus line of the title.
If one were to draw a caricature of a Frenchman, then Marrat was it. Small, probably no more than five four, slim, and a slightly dark complexion. An unshaven shadow adorned his chiselled jawline and thin, almost cruel lips. A long, hooked nose, topped by two narrow set black eyes, and capped with unkempt, shiny black hair. It was hard to discern his age. He could, in certain lights, have passed easily for thirty five, but on closer inspection, the smooth skin surrounding his eyes bore out that this was a younger man, and his relentless energy only confirmed this.
For the entire show, he never stopped moving. His gaze rarely left the audience, prowling continually from side to side. With no gaps between songs, and all at break neck speed, Nixon never saw him once look towards his comrades. The theatrics of their opening gambit had worked fabulously. There had been no shuffling about, tuning, count ins, or even hellos, and Marrat's delayed entrance, from the opposite side, had taken everyone by surprise.
For Nixon and Gil, who of course, had never heard the band before, the effect was hypnotising, but the rest of the crowd were well versed indeed. For a band that had barely been on the circuit, and until this moment, still didn't have a record out, it was surprising to see that everybody knew the songs. Chorus lines were sung along with, and the crowd heaved as one to Marrat's gesticulations. The riding crop, never still, pointed, prodded, and sometimes whipped for real, whenever someone got too near.
From the first song in, the whole room was sweating. Nixon noticed that even Damon and Michel, who hardly moved at all, were drenched. Damon had a small bandana around his forehead, presumably to keep the sweat out of his eyes. Michel, on the far side, together with winkle picker boots and black jeans, had on, an over sized heavy leather jacket, and the sweat poured out of him. Even from the opposite end of the stage it was clear to see the drips of perspiration on the end of his nose and chin. None of the band took a drink either. At one point, during a slight instrumental break, Marrat reached back to the side of an amp, and lifted a bottle of beer. Crop under arm, about to lift it to his lips, he suddenly shook it, and sprayed the front rows instead. The crowd went wild, then he skimmed the half empty bottle just above their heads, to shatter into the back wall beyond.
Histrionics... A wax bottle? Nobody knew, but it had the desired effect, and as the crowd bayed for more, Marrat grabbed the mike stand and headed towards the left side, directly in front of Gil and Nixon. As he plucked the mike from its clip, he momentarily lost control, and probably due to his beer soaked glove, it fell from his grasp, and tumbled off the stage. Gil, who had by now, found himself at the front, saw the mike, and quickly handed it back to the gloved hand. He turned to say something to Nixon, who despite being close by, couldn't hear a thing he'd said.
It was the only slight glitch in a mesmerising performance. They must have played around twenty songs, in a little over an hour, and as the last one, Beauty in the Streets, ground to an end in a chaos of feedback guitar and thunderous bass, Marrat had already left the stage by the same way he'd entered, but this time, heading straight out of the rear entrance, guarded by non other than Tanner Francis himself. The band, having left their instruments still wailing on the stage floor, were spirited away through the crowd, towards the dressing room opposite. Eventually, somebody came up on stage and killed the amps, as Lou Reed and the Velvets sprang out of the sound system with the metronomic White Light, White Heat.
It was an appropriate choice. A white heat intensity had certainly been created, and the crowd, no doubt by now, well and truly scorched, swelled towards the bar. Nixon thought it an ideal moment to pick up a copy of the album, before any queues formed, and then, remembering Steevo's orders from earlier, gestured to Gil, that now maybe the time to take their leave.
Back up on the street outside, the cool evening air felt good. Their clothes, damp with sweat, soon turned cold. It was ten thirty. Nixon and Gil meandered their way up Oxford Street, as the muffled thump of the sounds emanating from the club below grew faint, the ringing in their ears took over.
Nixon paused at the roadside, still stunned from the experience of the gig. He was trying to figure out where they could get a bus back home. Suddenly, an enormous screech of brakes woke Nixon to the fact that Gil had stepped out, directly in front of a black London cab.
In an instant, Nixon had grabbed Gil's collar, and managed to swing him away from danger. In doing so, his own inertia swung him backwards, and into the rear end of the swerving cab. He felt a sharp pain in his right arm as he collided, during his fall, directly with the curved edge of the chrome - steel, rear bumper.
Gil was on his hands and knees, on the pavement. Shaken, but unhurt, he turned to see Nixon lying in the gutter. The cab had swerved to a stop in the centre of the road, and the driver came running over.......
“What the fack's goin' on.....Are you all right son ?”
Nixon gingerly picked himself up. He felt okay, except for his arm. Inside his jacket sleeve he felt blood, and it hurt, but he didn't want admit it.
“Sorry mate, its my friend, he's French. Forgot which way to look. I'm okay, though, honest”
“Sure ?”
“Absolutely, no worries, I'll be fine, thanks”
With that, the cabbie, seeing the traffic starting to back up, and mindful of his fare, gave Nixon a once over, to see if he looked too damaged.
“I reckon, you've saved yer mates life there, pal. He owes ya, big time. Tell 'im to sort is green cross code, next time 'ees outta frogland”
Nixon and Gil finally got back home at ten to midnight. His parents were already asleep, so they crept into his room, where finally they could take stock of the night's events. Nixon had a bottle of cheap whisky stashed in his wardrobe. He took it out, took a slug, and then removed his jacket to survey the damage. The bleeding had stopped but the jacket had stuck to the wound. Teasing it finally free brought the pain back momentarily. He'd gashed the rear side of his right bicep. It was nothing serious, but there'd probably be a small scar.
“A souvenir of the night........ I'm really sorry, Nikki”
“Its all right, man, I'll live, but you heard the cabbie, you owe me big time”
He smiled, and handed the bottle to Gil, and started to look over the sleeve of his new album, which remarkably, had survived the accident with scarcely a scratch to the sleeve. He asked Gil to put the record on, and while it played they sat in silence, reliving the concert and taking turns from the bottle. The record, although playing quietly, briefly recaptured the moment. Even at this volume, it was still possible to catch the intensity, and Nixon was surprised to find that he could remember a lot of songs that were played earlier.
“It was amazing wasn't it ?”
Gil lay back, and looked at the ceiling.
“I think I would like to do something like this one day”
“Me too, tell you what, how about we make a pledge that we do ?”
“Okay, well at least, could I make a pledge that I am in your debt ?
Nixon looked at him, puzzled.
“You know, a blood bond. If ever you have need of desperate assistance, then I promise to make it good.....You understand ?”
Nixon didn't know whether it was the booze talking, but Gil seemed determined. He sat up and pulled out a small penknife, telling Nixon about a film he'd once seen, where two red Indians had made a nicks on their wrists, bound them together, and became blood brothers. With a quick flick of the knife, Gil had produced a thin red line, and held his arm out. Nixon, not sure about further pain, suggested he hold it to his still bloodied wound, and that would suffice.
“Okay, then”
And as the last track of the album played, they recited its title, and touched blood to blood.
“Aux Armes”
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