(Mad): Scenes 25-28

SCENE 25: Backstage at the Haçienda after Bez’s first gig

The Happy Mondays & Derek Ryder roll in clearly in a good mood; backslapping, lighting spliffs & cracking open beers

Paul Davis
Wow! That was fucking brilliant that was

Gaz Whelan
Yeah, that was proper buzzin!

Derek Ryder
Well done, Bez

Paul Ryder
Youre in the band as far as I’m concerned
Like discovering a chest full of gold
Was hidden in the attic all along

Look at my hands, those blisters are massive
Out there, y’now, I suffer’d for mine art
But feel the most awake I’ve ever been

Shaun Ryder
I can’t believe what just happen’d out there
T’was more than marvelous in every way

Enter Tony Wilson

Tony Wilson
Gentlemen, my gentlemen, what the fuck
Ebon the Zebulunite has judg’d us
Having a dancer as handsome as Bez
A stroke of gallant genius,

Shaun Ryder
Fate, mate
Bez was always meant to join the Mondays
Before we’d even conjur’d the idea

Tony Wilson
Indeed, thine image as a gang of lads
Pluck’d from the working classes of Salford
Lives grey as the Norman church at Broughton
But streetsmart with it, makes it natural
To let the non-musician on your stage –
Pardon, Bez, but you do not play a note –
In all life’s written histories to come
When looking back on treasur’d times deceas’d
Evaluating chances, they will know
That night Mark berry leapt between the wires
Waving his shaker-makers, was the start
For any Jack & madamoiselle to hoist
Their banner to a band & thus to fame

Mark Day
He look’d like a fucking go-go dancer
& hardly burst the Irwell into flames

Paul Davis
I thought it was ace myself
Some Agamemnon on his megaron
Or Incan king on Pambamarca’s peaks

Derek Ryder
Yeah me too
A troll, a tank, a secret weapon, lads
Our band has found its precious logotype
A winging shaft has struck the highest bow
Whatever Bez was doing it was great
Gazing on alien radiatus
The audience transfixed with massive smiles
Emitting volumous appreciation
Descry’d to me we’d found the missing link

Paul Ryder
What do you think Bez

I’m not quite sure yet
Adrenelin pump’d round my spindly form
Is yet to let reality enter
But in this trance shamanic lights I saw
Shining beyond the sassy neuro-blast
That is the Happy Mondays & your sound
I was vibe-spewing like a volcano
Renewance of my spiritual derm
Blissful happiness ensured, in such state
Ev’ry fibre of mine resonating
Humm’d a million notes of pure pleasure
I didn’t give a toss who was watching
As sweating like a pig I felt a god

Mark Day
You look’d like a dick

Fuck off

Mark Day
A fool then
Maracas & a silly kipper-grin
Are meant for kindergartens not stardom

Tony Wilson
Mark, looking foolish uplifts the spirit
Far better to exempt oneself & fly
Singing Gratia Dei sum quod sum,
Or some other suitable apopthegm
Than trawl dank sewers, fannying for change

Derek Ryder
So boys, a show of hands, do you now have
Six members in the band, or yet still five

Paul Davis
He’s in

Gaz Whelan

Paul Ryder
Same for me

Mark Day
O, fer fucks sake !

Derek Ryder
Well, that’s unanimous that is
Welcome to the band, brother Berry

I’m mighty glad to be a Mondays man
Might be a tad extemporaneous
But that’s the best fun I have ever had

The Mondays celebrate

SCENE 26: A café in Manchester

Joe is waiting – enter Lucy – they acknowledge each other

A pot of tea & a chip butty please

Café owner
No problem, where ya sitting

With that guy

Café Owner
Gonna be a couple of minutes tops

Alright babe, everything alright, you sounded
Serious over the phone

Guess it is
Serious, I’ve got something to tell you

You’re not fucking having an affair are ya

Don’t be daft, yer daft sod… its Manchester

What about Manchester?

Well, it’s a dump
Didn’t notice before graduation
Too busy loving you, & studying,
But now I’ve tuck’d my degree underbelt
I’m looking at the possibilities
Beyond those moors sprawl’d oer the Pennine spine,
I am ready for the future Lucy

And I’m not in it right?

Trust me, this hour fixing my eyes on thee
Just melts my determination to go
But living in such turmoil must only
Erode my love for you

Its fine Joseph
I’ll miss you y’know

You too babe

Come here

They embrace / the café owner brings Lucy her tea & chip butty

Café Owner
Here you go

Thanks… so where ya gonna go

I dunno yet, somewhere sunny first tho
Fucks sake, Manchester’s a damp old city
I was thinking about Ibiza


Ibiza, the Ballearic island
That ossifragus ocean-bound oerflies
Perch’d between Benidorm & Majorca
The poetry of its terraforma
More pleasant than any English verdure
I’ve a mate out there who works in a bar
If I get a job you can visit me

If I’m not seeing anybody else

Don’t be like that

Like what

Y’know, piss’d off

Well I’m not exactly elated, Joe
Y’know, I fuckin love you & you’re off
Just leave with me an ill planet to reign
& from mortality remove the zest

Enter Donna & Alisha

Yo, yo, yo, guys, what’s happening lovebirds

He’s fucking off to Spain, int he

Are ya

Thinking about it

And not coming back
He thinks Manchester’s shit

I don’t mean that
Just fancy a change, I’m young, I’m

A cunt

Come on Donna… drop the sententiousness
Hey Joe, I understand, the only way
To know what’s true is see it with thine eyes
Better always to live than hope to live
Its good to get away & see the world
I will miss you for one you’re a good guy

Cheers Alisha, come visit with Lucy
{to Donna}
You’re not coming tho

I fucking am, mate

I mean, what’s the point in being alive
To live & die, pay taxes in between,
Exhaling pockets of the same stale air
Surely there’s wine, there’s ambition, there’s fame,
There’s travelling paths untrodden for years
There’s glaciers, curv’d bays, opera, art,
Languages, native dishes, discoteques
Everything, y’know, the world can offer
The brave among us who can close a door
Behind, to never open it again
I love you guys, you fucking know I do
But I’ve gotta go girls, understand, please
I’ve drunk delight in a fools’ paradise
& now the light is shining on the doors


You got to find your true religion
You got to fly from indecision
You got to hide your television
I dont mind if I cant find it

Youve got to practice with precision
Youve got to match mandela mission
Youve got to grip this split decision
Like a timebomb tinky bandit

I see a big fat sign on the road to nowhere
But I’m gonna take my time cos I aint going there

You got to find your perfect tweeter
You got to be a man & meet her
You got to be a planet-beater
Make her think you’re someone special

& when rose lips sweet on the teeter
You’ve got to close that centimeter
& drench her with the bliss-repeater
From a crystal kinky vessel

I see a big fat sign on the road to nowhere
but im gonna drink my wine cos i aint going there

Bescause I see a big fat sign on the road to nowhere
But I’m gonna take my time cos I aint going there

SCENE 27: The International II, Manchester

Gareth Evans in his office. He is wearing a tracksuit & scruffy old trainers

Gareth Evans
I’m not paying that much for the Buzzcocks
Well, Flag Of Convenience, whatever
Their name is these days, I’m not paying that
Punk has died a death mate
{The Stone Roses burst into the room like rock stars – Reni is holding a copy of City Life}
I’ll ring you back

Andy Couzens
Are you Gareth Evans

Gareth Evans
I am he, yes
What the fuck yer doing in my office?

We saw your advert in this City Life
We’re a band

Gareth Evans
You are

Gareth Evans
Ian Brown
We’re The Stone Roses

Gareth Evans
I thought I recognised yer, I saw you
Down Dingwalls, yeah, you’re pretty decent lads,
Psychedelic urchins from grimy streets
Whose martellando music pure pursued
By hoards of angry, stampeding rhinos
The Clash, the Pistols coursing down bloodlines,
Made manifest by your testing music

John Squire
Do you wanna be our manager

Gareth Evans

Pete Garner
Our manager, you’ve got a club, contacts
We’ve got the greatest music in the world

Ian Brown
We’ve seen what you’re doing here, some top bands
Play the International One & Two
This place was just a dump, where you would wipe
Your thick, sticky feet as you were leaving

You seem to know what you’re doing, Gareth

Andy Couzens
& you’re not fucking Factory

Gareth Evans
I’m very much an antifactory
But very much in tune with groups today
Only the best, establish’d, upcoming
Invited to my stage, Wilson’s whimming
Sees bands that never should have got togehere
Propell’d to Manchester’s magistral bench
But you guys, you are different I’ve seen
Guess Wilson’s loss can only be my gain

John Squire
That posh cunt paints the theme of all our scorns

Pete Garner
What is your background, Gareth, in music

Gareth Evans
I don’t really have one, made my money
As the best blow-waver north of Watford
From hairdressing salons, some thirty strong;
Piccadilly, Rusholm, Stretford, Burnley,
I even had a branch in Dusseldorf
Such Everests are conquer’d, so a change
Was due, some fresh challenge for my talents,
Not wasting them erraticus, I know
That I can sell just about anything,
I mean, take a look at these underpants
{Gareth Evans drops his pants revealing little white Pommes briefs with an apple logo on the front}
I’m the ultimate marketing man, me
Anything to anyone, anywhere, anytime
I’ve got what it takes, can do any job
I’ve taken Clapton out for bolognese
& only pay with cash
{takes out a large roll of money}
You see this boys
I’ve earn’d this wedge with graft, & so can you

Andy Couzens
We are fucking brilliant we are, mate
But we can’t get a gig, nor a get a deal
By Manchester feel wholly ostracized

Ian Brown
So you’ll do it then, be our manager

Gareth Evans
Why the fuck not lads, I remember you,
One of the guitarists, right, what’s your name

John Squire
John, John Squire

Gareth Evans
When I saw you in Camden
Standing still like Booker T’s bass-player
So much charisma, I was most impress’d
& you’re the singer, what’s your name

Ian Brown

Gareth Evans
I love your voice – it pisses me right off
Everyone who thinks they are a singer
Buggars off to stage school, where’s the instinct,
Where’s the human spirit exemplified
& amplified thro natural voices
No, you’ve got it boy, I love your music
You’re just like the Rolling Stones, I love it
I tell you what I’ll do, lets meet up soon
I’ll have a contract ready you can sign
Lets do all this official, yeah, like pros
My job will be to get you known – full stop
My remit is to boil the pot of fame
& pour it on your icons

Andy Couzens
Sounds buzzing
I’m Andy, by the way, that’s Pete, Reni

Gareth Evans
Welcome boys, from now this is your base
Find yourself a cabin in the cellars
You can rehearse here in the afternoons
Before the next nigh’s bandsmen have arriv’d
Help yourself to the bar within reason
& watch whatever you want, all for free

Do you think that you can get us a deal

Gareth Evans
I will certainly try my proposals
I’ve discover’d barefaced audacity
Sheer chutzpah always pays out dividends
You lot shall be my young Turks from the north
But first a little crimping must take place
You’ll have to cut your hair & you’ll grow yours

Ian Brown
Fuck off

Gareth Evans
In America you’ll be gay
Because of Bronski Beat & their boneheads
& come on, bandanas & paisley shirts,
Are cliché rock dress from another land

Pete Garner
We’ve been on at Ian to grow his hair

Ian Brown
I’ll do it lads if that is what it takes
To reach the celestial citadel

Gareth Evans
Boys, I’m the one to implement thy fate
Bringing a certain solidarity
& common cause to the revolution
Like any project I’ll ever handle
I’ll give it one hundred & ten percent
Set your art on oriental circuits
Irrigated like fertile Bundelkhand
I will water your gardens each morning
I will tend to thy tables ev’ry eve
I don’t need to sleep boys, whats the point,
I’m at the club til two or three AM
By six I’m awake again, up & out,
By twelve I’m loading in the band that day
Talking of which, I’m gonna have to go
The Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ trucks are due
I’ve space for two – Ian, John, wanna come
I’ll ensure you’ll have no dubitations
Chatting a little more about your dreams

John Squire
Why not, is that alright lads,

Andy Couzens
On you go

Gareth Evans
Well, if you don’t mind, lets clear my office
The next time that we meet, salubrious
Environs will be surrounding

Pete Garner
With chairs

Gareth Evans
A restaurant I think, I know a place
Who does the greatest bolognese in town
I took Eric Clapton there once, you know

Andy Couzens
We know, you’ve told us

Gareth Evans
Well let me liase
With Ian & John & all will be well

You’re a cheeky cunt, you are, mate, but cool

Gareth Evans
I can only be me, if I’m cool that’s great
Right The Stone Roses, nice to meet you all
But if you’d vacate I’d be elated

Pete Garner
No worries

Gareth Evans
Andy Couzens
Thanks for having us Gareth
These promises are fair, our party sure,
I think, to let you take the green mantle
That is our vernal songcraft, thanks again

Gareth Evans
You’re more than welcome, boys, Ian & John
Go down & wait for me in the car park

John Squire
Will do

Well, that went interestingly

Exit the Stone Roses / Gareth locks up behind them

SCENE 28: Outside Strawberry Studios, Stockport

The Tart Tart video is being shot by the Bailey Brothers – Keith Jobling & Phil Shotton – Nathan McGough is doing the clapper / Shaun has been on heroin

Keith Jobling
Alright Shaun, so we’re gonna play the song
Thro this boom box, & you can mime the words

Shaun Ryder
Yer joking aren’t ya, lip synching’s so shit
Where the fuck’s the soul, rock & roll, in that

Phil Shotton
We’re not gonna force you to do it, Shaun
But, it would look much more professional

Shaun Ryder
But ridiculous to a Salforder
There’s no rebellion in towing lines

Keith Jobling
Whatever, lets just get something down, eh
Nathan, its take six

Nathan McGough
Got it

Phil Shotton
Ready Shaun

Shaun Ryder

Phil Shotton

On it

Nathan McGough
Tart Tart, take six, go

Keith starts the song, Phil does the filming, Shaun mimes to the lyrics & Bez grooves along

Keith Jobling
That was good actually, lads, good vibes
Shame about the miming

Shaun Ryder
It was funny

Phil Shotton
It weren’t bad, but now I’m proper starving
Lets grab a bit of lunch then carry on

Keith Jobling
Agreed, there’s a pub by the studios
Lets there convene, they do a good hot-pot
We’re buying boys


Shaun Ryder
See you down there lads

Exit Bill & Phil

Nathan McGough
Hello Shaun & Bez, gladness in greetings,
My name is Nathan, I’m Nathan McGough
I’ve heard you manage yourselves, well, barely,
Cos no-one else dares step up to the plate
So rich your reputation for rampage
I love Tart Tart, tho’, I’ve just realised
Watching you & listening intently
To chord progressions, jangling guitars
& those half-lyrics, half ethereal
Mimesi, fetch’d from psychic pentagrams

For me its definitely the first track
To capture the essence & potential
Of the band, with everything before
Feet-finding frolics, the primitive funk
Of Freaky Dancing pales to diffidence

Nathan McGough
Whats the song about, Shaun

Shaun Ryder
Well, loads of things
My lyricism’s patchworks of vignettes
Little bits of stories stor’d in snippets
But its named after a bird from Chorlton
Dinah was her name, she’d been on the scene
Since the end of the sixties, dealing speed
Took a bit of a shine to me & Bez
Then they found her dead, a brain haemorrhage
Or summat, not nice, the rest of the song’s
Got nowt to do with that tho,

Nathan McGough
Its surreal
An abstract joyride on a bike stolen
From outside the asylum, but superb!

Shaun Ryder
To me its not the words that matter much
But more the sounds, syllables & patterns
Of consonants in jingle-jangle joy
Gone clattering from mandibles to air

Nathan McGough
I do not know if joy’s the right word, Shaun
Sardonic esoteric arrogance
& bitter disdain for existence, yes
Thy black & depressing songs of discord
Would seem the very badge of vitriol
If it wasn’t for you crazy jesters
Partying all night thro the narcotic
That is the Mondays music, mind & I
Would love to be your fucking manager
I got what it takes, trust me, I can drink
& drug my way thro anyone’s party

Shaun Ryder
Fucks sake… what do you think Bez

Hes alright
I tell you what, after we’ve done the shoot
Come back to ours for a little session
& see if you can back up yer gumption

Shaun Ryder
If you can, you’ve got the job

Nathan McGough
Don’t worry
Easy peasy, spicy & sleazy, lads
I’ll get the fucking job… so shall we go
Lunch is on the Bailey boys remember

I ‘ant ‘ad bloody hotpot in ages

Shaun Ryder
Whats your name again, by the way

My dad is Roger McGough, the poet

Shaun Ryder
Nice one, definitely a good omen
Anyway boys I’ll catch you up alright

Nathan McGough
Why, what you up to

None of our business

Nathan McGough
Ah OK – I’ll see you in a bit, yeah

Exit Bez & Nathan / Shaun chases the dragon & crumples against a box

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s