Category Archives: Madchester



March 1979: Joy Division are concluding their set at Bowdon Vale Youth Club, Altrincham. There are kids as young as ten in the crowd. The final notes of Love Will Tear Us Apart are met with rapturous applause. The crowd begins to disperse.

John Squire
That was amazing

Ian Brown
Certainly was, John,
From doldrum, slingshot starlight to inspire

John Squire
That was cosmically quaternary
With bass, guitar, vocals – from now I know
A better drummer makes a better band

Ian Brown
I felt that too, John, felt the perfect beat
Of punkish rush, with motown’s pounding sound
Enmix’d, beneath melodious menage

John Squire
Hey, Ian

Ian Brown
Yeah mate

John Squire
We should form a band
Then one day write some proper beltin tracks

Ian Brown
Well, we’d best get started then, lets heave home

Exit John & Ian / Paul Ryder approaches Peter Hook as he’s packing away his bass

Paul Ryder
‘Ere mate, that was proper buzzin’ that was

Peter Hook
Cheers kid, have this

Paul Ryder
What is it

Peter Hook
My plectrum

Paul Ryder
I’m thinkin’ about playing bass like you

Peter Hook
The glue that keeps the golden groove, my boy,
Binding a band’s togetherness, bassline
Reigns supreme – feel them in your heart, ears, guts
Emitting clear omnipotence thro songs

Paul Ryder

Peter Hook
& kid, good luck, go play

Paul Ryder
I will

Exit Peter Hook / enter Shaun Ryder

Shaun Ryder
Oi Paul,
C’mon, we’re skinnin’ up in bogs, yer comin’

Paul Ryder
Yeah… Shaun

Shaun Ryder

Paul Ryder
Lets put a band together

Shaun Ryder
Why not, gotta be smarter than robbin’
But come on, before they cane all the draw

Exit Paul & Shaun / enter Bez

As like some VHS or Betamax
Rewinding with a whirr back to the start
Before the next retelling of the tale
As tangl’d plotlines of this conchord root
I’ll say my little prologue, with an eye
& great events to come, I’ve lived them once
What amazing congregations await
Like here, full energiz’d, a magic host,
The best bands need to feed upon best crowds
When playing loud & live they’ll thrive on love
As in the groove communion each plays
Their part in summoning the Spirit Dance;
One Heart, One Vibe, One Music & one wild
Emergence of delight within One Soul –
& so it was in Manchester when song
Erupted in caverns, dance halls & clubs,
Like Bowdon Vale Youth Club, seventy-nine
& I was there with half of Altrincham
Grammar, with a few other kids from town,
Like the brothers Ryder, fates’ yet parted
From my own, tho’ destiny intends
Colliding worlds, by Trojan gods chosen
To represent, to fashion, to parade
Iconoclastic psionitic songs
In all the vibrant glory of our youths –
We were young when sonic seeds were planted,
A little older when first shoots appear’d
From all the earthy firmaments of fate,
& then we bloom’d, when music rul’d our town,
Us in our twenties, drifting on a dream
Of talents as them tapp’d, that would become
The miracle of Madchester in time.

Exit Bez


The Factory Office. 1980. The wake of Ian Curtis. Peter Hook, Stephen Morris, Bernard Sumner (New Order), Debbie Curtis, Martin Hannet, Tony Wilson & Rob Gretton are watching the Sex Pistols in silence

Rob Gretton
Its fucking shit, this, this is fucking shit

Stephen Morris
I know, mate, what a selfish idiot

Tony Wilson
Hang on, let not such harsh words taint the day
& change our best remembrances of him
Who brought the fruits of beauty to the fair
Where all was dull & dusty, creaking rigs
Of iron-bolted Victoriana
Reduced to slums midst chimneys without looms,
Whose urban decay, alienation,
Was filling with our music, with our songs
When semi-sensory deprivation
Of landscapes over-ran by disposses’d
Became an optimistic paradise
Where Ian Curtis, prophet midst the bins,
The Che Guevera of post-punk became

Bernard Sumner
Our songs? Our music? This dismal affair
Them rendersd wastrel, mute, & meaningless,

Martin Hannet
Or not, perhaps them given meaning now
Two masterworks about to be releas’d
The brutal bloom of Love Tears Us Apart
& Closer, black bouquet, from whence I pluck’d

The strangest blooms of post-punk paragons

Stephen Morris
O what a massive album that shall be
I have revolv’d it constantly since, since…

Bernard Sumner
Ian died… me too

Rob Gretton
& me

Peter Hook
As I
But almost too unbearable to hear
I’ve for the first time listen’d to the words
Transcribing every lyric, Oh My God
‘Tis but a manifesto of his death
A warning of his suicide to come

Rob Gretton
I the same – bloody hell – he was a bit
Why didn’t anyone say anything

Tony Wilson
We understimated the dangers
& acted stupid in our flippancy

Bernard Sumner
We did weather his terminal illness,
With all the inexperience of youth
Whose innocence has died the day he died

Debbie Curtis
The blueprint given to me directly
I was his wife & saw his inner thoughts
Upon the moors given air & body
As we went walking in our closest days
He did not want to live yon twenty-five
But this was rooted in a teenage angst
From which all grow, I thought he’d done the same
An elevated spirit to the world
& all his gross morosity enjoy’d
Soul wallowing like hippopotami
In all the moody mudflats of his mind
& all he wanted was wordsmitherie
To novels sculpt, let lyrics fount & flow

Bernard Sumner
I do not think I’ll ever find the strength
To cope with Ian’s death, verve of my life
Removed forever, & I will never
Ever forget him, or be able to
For just as friends he meant so much to me,
Regardless of the group, but when that mixed
Into our two-fold destiny, the shock
Of such a gross departure leaves me scarr’d

Stephen Morris
So much have we achiev’d, & yet so young,
& just about to step onto the plane
That leads to glory & America
To tour the states a dream of ours for years
& he’s just burst it with a bastard noose

Peter Hook
The fun of life hath lifted with a flash
Flow, flow, ye ripples of grief, over ponds,
Streams & rivers, harbours, estuaries, seas
& join the oceans of unspoken tears

Debbie Curtis
I think its callous, my heart’s frozen cold,
How can you do this to the ones you love
You’ve go to put them first, your family
Your friends,

Peter Hook
His vision of the future was too bleak
& he was very ill

Tony Wilson
What’s done is done,
As dust-drawn stars one day return to dust
His time had come, to some before his time,
To him, who knows, the cyclone of his mind
Dragg’d rages thro’ his latter days of life

Bernard Sumner
He was anguish’d, frustrated & depress’d
Events were slipping out of his control
When labouring under the heavy weight
Of illness, stardom, & America
Of leaving Debbie but sharing a child
& loving someone she could not call mum
Were nothing but the final troublesparks
Which lit the fusewire of the fragile box
Which kept hyenas from the rape of dreams
He said as much to me one drunken night
A week before he slic’d his slender bark
Right off the great tree Yggdrasil

Tony Wilson
That last
Time we ever spoke still haunts me madly
Down Birmingham, now Joy Division’s tomb,
I prais’d his use of archaic phrases
All thro a conversation very deep
Then on the day before he went & died
I was driving down thro Piccadilly
& saw him in the streets just after dawn
He clearly had been wandering all night
With Annik rolling off him happywise,
Who saw him homeward with a clinch of love
Then I & he did catch the self-same train
But sat in sep’rate carriages apart
Til he got off at Macclesfield & I
Went on to London, to lifelong regret
I should have sat beside him to confine
All thoughts of suicide…

Debbie Curtis
Tony… Tony

Tony Wilson
Sorry, what

Debbie Curtis
There’s nothing you could have done

Rob Gretton
Its time we form’d a funerary toast
To Ian


Peter Hook
He was a great friend
Stage-shaman, singer & a bloke superb
Good luck mate, let your spirit wings unfurl
& fly thee t’where the fuck your soul belongs

Stephen Morris
So what about the band… is that too fresh

Martin Hannet

The music never dies, lads, only fades

But always comes back burning on a wheel

Bernard Sumner
Well, we had rehearsals book’d, didn’t we
Anybody cancel

Rob Gretton

Peter Hook
Not me

Stephen Morris

Rob Gretton
Well fuck it, then, lets just carry on lads

Stephen Morris
So, I’ll see you all on Monday shall I

Bernard Sumner
It’ll be a fuckin blue one like, but
I’ll be there

Peter Hook
Me too

Stephen Morris
Well see you’s Monday
I’m off

Tony Wilson
See ya mate

Debbie Curtis
Tara chuck

Bernard Sumner

Exit Stephen

Martin Hannet
Who wants another beer then

Peter Hook
Aye go on

Tony Wilson
I’ll have a can of guiness instead

Silence descends – Martin goes to the fridge for some beers / passes them out / they carry on watching the show


1981 – Mark, Paul, Shaun & Gaz Whelan are in a Salford community centre preparing to practice – Derek Ryder is setting up their equipment

Derek Ryder
Happy Mondays ! What kinda name is that

Mark Day
Its terrible innit Derek

Derek Ryder
Tis that

Paul Ryder
Nah, dad, its cool, its so bad its cheesy
We Scallys aren’t supposed to be happy

Shaun Ryder
Unless we’re on summat

Paul Ryder
Exactly Shaun
Especially not on fuckin Mondays
Its kind of opposite of what we’re like
Its a shit name but that’s the point right there
If it jars with us

Shaun Ryder
It certainly does
Then that is the critical quintessence
Of what we’re all about

Gaz Whelan
Where dya get them?

Derek Ryder
What, these mike stands

Gaz Whelan
Aye them

Derek Ryder
I cut a little deal with Al Capone

Mark Day
Did you pay for ‘em

Derek Ryder
Course I bloody dint
I walk’d inside the Tattersall Rd Club
A week last Wednesday, well these two babies
Were lying about, no-one put em away
So I’m like, the club must not want them then

Shaun Ryder
They’re better off with us dad, yeah

Paul Ryder
So dad,
Ya done yet?

Derek Ryder
Aye, its all working proper
Give yer instruments a nudge, check the sound

Mark Day
Has anybody seen mi red plectum

Shaun Ryder
Up yer fucking rectum – hey, its good that
I bet its sounding banging in a song
I found a plectrum up yer rectu-um

Derek Ryder
{passing a packet of plectrums}
Here, use one these

The band make a few noises & adjustments

Paul Ryder
Well, dad, it all seems to be working fine
So… ya can leave us to it now

Derek Ryder
You what

Shaun Ryder
He means you can fuck off dad

Derek Ryder
Not a chance
All of this is my fucking equipment,
I paid for this room

Paul Ryder
But it’s a shit hole

Derek Ryder
Never mind, I still fuckin paid for it

Shaun Ryder
But when you making proper buzzing tunes
Astride the astral rainbows of music
Willowing hither, willowing thither
Who the fuck wants their dad on the carpet?

Derek Ryder
I’m staying, get over it, now come on
Play a tune or summat, at six o clock
The Don & Dominoes are coming in

Mark Day
What shall we play

Gaz Whelan
Lets warm up with a jam

Paul Ryder
Nah, remember that one we did last time
Lets kick off with it, I’ve written some riffs
Over the rough recording, dad press play

Mark Day
Which one was it, I can’t remember mate?

Paul Ryder
That narcoleptic ditty call’d the Egg,
Some marshmellow procession thro the Blues
You forg’d a snatch or two of lyrics, Shaun
That herein are transcrib’d

Paul passes Shaun a lyric sheet

Shaun Ryder
Nice one our kid

Paul Ryder
We should start off all proper spacey
I’ve been listening to Donavon’s new
Neutronica, & its opening track
Has such a splendid jamboree of sounds
Over a galloping beat, lets do that

Derek Ryder
Fucking Donavon

Paul Ryder
Not that folky shit
He’s entering the eighties all space age

Gaz Whelan
Well, lets do it then, ready 1-2-3-4

They play The Egg

Derek Ryder
That was good that

Gaz Whelan
Shaun, you got any draw

Shaun Ryder
Yeah I do, but Gazza that reminds me
Mate, if I’m out about & selling drugs
Can ya stop shouting, ‘Shaun, got any speed
Got any weed,’

Gaz Whelan
What shall I call ya then

Shaun Ryder
I’ve been thinking – you can call me X

Gaz Whelan
You’re not some fucking secret agent, mate

Paul Ryder
Hes quite a clandestine cunt is our kid
Sneaky as fuck, the name has fram’d his jib
So, everyone should have a nickname then
A band’s a band, we do things together
I wanna be Horse, Paul Ryder, horse rider
& what about Mark, Mark Day, the Sunray

Shaun Ryder
Nah, he looks like a cow, so he’s Cowhead
Especially with his big dopey voice
Spouting off sanity in bore-o-tone

Mark Day
Somebody has to be the sane one lads

Paul Ryder
Well… define sanity

Mark Day
A pension plan
Rock n rollin’ is not a proper job

Shaun Ryder
Precisely, pal, if I was ever forced
To face, confront, reality, I would
End it there & then, despond into death
Spurning labour’s stagnant drudgeries
I’d rather paint wings on a butterfly
Than timewaste chasing money for to burn
Time yet more on material bullshit

Gaz Whelan
What about me

Mark Day
Well, you’re Pepe le Pew
Always farting when you walk in a room
Leg-cocking, leaving scent-traps everywhere

Paul Ryder
Stinking the fucking place out, that’s us then
We’re Horse, X, Cowhead & Pepe le Pew
The matchless, magic Happy Mondays crew

Paul Davis walks in with a bass

Derek Ryder
Alright mate, can we help ya

Paul Davis
Yeah you can
I want to be in your band

Paul Ryder
In our band

Paul Davis
Yeah, Gaz Whelan’s in it & he’s a dick

Gaz Whelan
Alright Paul

Paul Davis
Alright Gaz

Gaz Whelan
You found it then

Paul Davis
I bought a bass this morning, boys, its blue

Paul Ryder
We don’t need a bass – I’m the bass player

Paul Davis
But I’ll be fuckin’ better – when I learn

Mark Day
You what? you don’t even know how to play

Paul Davis
Not yet

Derek Ryder
What about keyboards, you play them

Paul Davis
Keyboards, yeah, of course I can play keyboards
They’re proper easy

Shaun Ryder
Dad what ya saying

Derek Ryder
You need a bit of extra in the sound
A little top might be the cherry slice
That does complete your sensory sound

Mark Day
Can you really play the keyboards

Paul Davis
A bit
Whats a bit, like a bit, or not really

Paul Davis
Somewhere in between – but I’ve got rhythm

Paul Ryder
Nah, you’ve got a mental disorder mate

Have you even got a keyboard

Paul Davis
Not yet
Look, let me take this bass back to the shop
& I’ll return on a flash of lightning
With a nice shiny keyboard, by the way
My name’s Paul Davis, Gaz calls me PD

Exit Paul Davis

Shaun Ryder
What the fuck was that

Gaz Whelan
That’s PD, a repropbate, my best mate

Paul Ryder
He’ll need a nickname

Shaun Ryder
How about ‘Knobhead’

Mark Day
That seems about right
He’s an absolute plum

Shaun Ryder
He seems quite mad
But none of us are exactly balanced
Upright individuals, he’ll slot in
This life of struggle offers chances few
So who are we then others to deny
A shot at something special in our lives

Gaz Whelan
So X have you got any draw, or what?

Shaun Ryder
Good idea, lets take a break, skin up

Derek Ryder
But you lot’ve only play’d one fucking song!

(Mad): Scenes 4-6


March 1981: Tony Wilson is showing New Order around the Marine Center on Whitworth Street – with them are Mike Pickering & Rob Gretton

Tony Wilson
Welcome to the proto-Hacienda,
The Ur-Hamlet, lets say, or the Hobbit,
This space, this place, shall be own demense
For we deserve a place to socialize
As does this fabulous city of ours
If Manchester has made us, let us gift
A present back to goodly Manchester,
Look at the fuckin’ Beatles, working class
Scouse lads shifted lock-stock to Saville Row
Factory the sacred antithesis
Of such turncoat disloyalty to roots

Rob Gretton
Besides, I cannot DJ anywhere
In Manchester, obviously
Jealous of my talents, but I will need
Somewhere to play my music for the birds

Tony Wilson
Remov’d from smoky, scampi-in-basket
Scarlet-lampshade nightclubs, dress code wanky,
Rotters & Oscars, brown bottle, old school,
Table-cloths, Jilly’s lagerlout ethics,
These are the nineteen eighties, sweeping change
Has blown away the empires of nations
So why not modes of late night dance & drink

Peter Hook
I understand, we’ve partied in New York
Confestively on another level

Tony Wilson
You were the city’s deputations there

Stephen Morris
O! what a whirl of wonder & lightning
Eden, Danceteria, & Tier 3
From steamy, low end sweatshops painted black
To Ritz’s full of art installations,
Bacchanalia was all we desired

Rob Gretton
Ne’er should an artist understimate
The influence of early adventures
Without Childe Harold would Byron be great
Without New York would we be standing here

Peter Hook
Some devote their lives to trees, some deserts,
Others to booming music in the dark,
I’m well up for a nightclub to call home
A place for strepic pleasures to uphold
It should be a parable of the present
A polythemic congress of the faiths,
Electro, disco, funk, punk, cocktail bars,
& party alcoves, creativity
Focuss’d, for buildings create synergy

Tony Wilson
Yes, buildings alter ways that people think
I mean, just look at Renaissance Florence

Bernard Sumner
Yeah, but, this isn’t Renaissance Florence
This is Dark Age Manchester, in the rain
A New York disco to this city moved
A senseless act based on a sceneless base

Stephen Morris checks the acoustics with a loud shout

Rob Gretton
Bloody hell fire

Stephen Morris
The acoustics are superb
The rest is an obstacle shambolic
But potentially fucking brilliant
As things mutate their being is improved
The natural selection of a space
It just needs the right vibes to set it off

Tony Wilson
For those ascending Mount Improbables
Claiming crown summits doubles the glory,
But think about it, the location’s great
The living rooms of Hulme just down the road
Will pack it to the rafters if they know
A night of decent music’s half a mile,
Ten minutes til they step inside
A temple for this next generation
Of kids untouch’d by rockist snobbery

Rob Gretton
Think of it less of an old-fashion’d disco
But more of a community service
Where people can trade off inspiration
When hearing fresh ideas every day
This city’s splinter’d scenes shall coalesce
& disliquate to a single gospel

Mike Pickering
What did you say it was gonna be call’d

Rob Gretton
The Hacienda

Bernard Sumner
Bit Mexican like

Peter Hook
Yeah, why, why that

Tony Wilson
I was reading a book
Call’d ‘Leaving the Twentieth century,’
Limited edition, seventy-four,
Situationist International,
Where Franco-Russian Ivan Chtcheglov
Wrote, wait, I have a photocopy here;

And you, forgotten, your memories ravaged by all consternations of two hemispheres, stranded in the Red Cellars of Pali-Kao, wiithour music & without geography, no longer setting out for the hacienda where the roots think of the child & where the wine is finished off with fables from an old almanac. That’s all over. You’ll never see the hacienda. It doesn’t exist. The hacienda must be built

Rob Gretton
The Hacienda must be built… boys, BOYS!

Peter Hook
Well lets fucking build the fucker then!

Stephen Morris
We’re gonna have our own friggin’ nightclub
These coming brisk & giddy-footed times
Shall invocate the ghosts of dance-floors past
In polychromic fashions yet undar’d

Peter Hook

Then let this dull, grey city yield to light!

Rob Gretton
The light of nights of music, here shall be
A mortar & brick manifestation
Of New Order, of Factory artwork
You can literally walk right into
Forum to fall in love, to dance, to slump,
Perform, work, plan, & just like now, to dream

Mike Pickering
So as your future booker of the bands
Where the hell ya gonna put the stage

Rob Gretton
At the end obvioulsy

Tony Wilson
No, no, no
We haven’t discuss’d that yet properly
But let the dais prosper centralized
This is fundamentally a disco
Not a space for performers & egos
The club shall be the master, not the flesh

Enter Martin Hannet

Martin Hannet
Oi wankers, you pile of pretentious cunts

Tony Wilson
Martin, so glad you could make it today

Martin Hannet
Let me interject here for a moment
I quit

Tony Wilson

Martin Hannet
You should be spending money
On top of the range production equipment
Make records sound the best that they can be
Not spunking it all up against a wall
Especially these shite, recreant walls,
Nah – you’re never gonna see me again
I’m far too good for you, for Factory
For failing, as this venture surely shall

Exit Martin

Bernard Sumner
Well, that didn’t go well, did it Tony

Tony Wilson
He’ll be back, that’s a tamazi tantrum

Stephen Morris
How much is it going to cost us Tony

Peter Hook
& who’s gonna run it

Bernard Sumner
Logistics, lads

Rob Gretton
Well, the plan is we’re going to let it loose
Rather than just run it

Tony Wilson
Seventy grand
Half from Factory, half from New Order

Stephen Morris
Thirty-five grand, but the band only draws
Twenty quid a week each, that sounds crazy

Tony Wilson
We’ll use the profits from Unknown Pleasures

Bernard Sumner
We will, will we?

Peter Hook
At the end of the day
We are still gonna get paid our wages
& we’re gonna have a nightclub to do
Whatever we want, whenever we please
Reciprocally splendid arrangement
Argumentative ingenuity
Prevails thee yet again, Tony
There might be a million ways to die
But there is only one way we should live
No-one changed the world by being normal,
Life’s remit is to leave a legacy
Suggesting greatness to posterity
For us, it seems, our destiny shall be
The most avant-garde club in the whole world

Tony Wilson
That’s the matter, I cannot help but think
Our spirits once they obtain their conquests
Retain them forever, that from the heights
They’ve rais’d themselves, unable then to fall
For us the Hacienda is that height
Hoch soll sie leben

Rob Gretton

Tony Wilson
Long may she live

The lads make gratuitous cheers in celebration

Scene 5

1983: Ian Brown’s flat, Hulme – it is his girlfriend, Michelle’s 21st birthday party — Ian is talking Gluebag Glen / Enter Jodie & Geno Washington


Ian Brown
Hey Jodie, who’s this

Geno Washington
I’m Geno,
Geno Washington

Ian Brown
Never heard of you

Geno Washington
I’m from outta town, been playing a gig
In your town, its kinda cool, Manchester

Ian Brown
Then welcome to my home’s humility
But what fatequirk hath shone thy light on Hulme

Geno Washington
I was playing that gig at the uni
& was signing some autographs out back
When this one told me about your party
& its hard to say no to girls like Jodie

Ian Brown
Sweet, brother, sweet, you wanna drink?

Geno Washington
Or anything, I don’t really mind

Ian Brown

Geno Washington
Can I make a smoke, y’know, the good stuff

Gluebag Glen
How good?

Geno Washington
Its Jamaican

Ian Brown
Twos up

Geno Washington
Twos up?

He means can he follow you on the joint

Geno Washington
No problem, lets make this shit really great,
Put glide in our stride, & loot in our

Gluebag Glen
Fuck’s sake, Lucy’s just come in, big mistake
I’m outta here

Ian Brown
Gonna sort out them trips

Gluebag Glen
I’m on it

Exit Gluebag Glen / Enter Lucy & Donna

Ian, Ian Brown, its me


Lucy Davidson
Lucy Davidson from Altrincham

Ian Brown
O, its been a while

Sure, you’re all grown up
& looking good

Ian Brown

& your party’s ace
Thanks for having us

Where’s your Michelle then

Ian Brown
She’s always in the kitchen holding court

Nice one – best go & give her her present

Bye Ian

Ian Brown
Go & help yourself to drinks

Geno Washington
Those girls were sure into your style brother

They all are, all the girls like our Ian

Geno Washington
Looks like you’ve got lots of action going on

Ian Brown
Nah, man, I’m just hanging around, foolin
With my boys, listening to the music
I’ve never been a massive tail-chaser
& besides, wait til you meet my Michelle
A lovelier lass you will never meet
For her I’m like a loyal labrador

Geno Washington
Here, take this
{passes Ian the joint}

I’m off for a mingle boys

Geno Washington
Thanks for bringing me here, Jodie, real good
Got my mojo going and everything


Exit Jodie

Geno Washington
You oughtta be a pop star

Ian Brown

Geno Washington
You oughtta go into the pop business
Whenever girls go crazy in that way
I seen ‘em swarm oer you, I see a star

Ian Brown
No chance, mate

Geno Washington
Trust me, the boys dig you too

Ian Brown
But it’s our party & these are my friends
That’s why they like me, I’m the host

Geno Washington
You sing?

Ian Brown
Sing, not really, no, I don’t sing at all

Geno Washington
Do you write songs?

Ian Brown
Well, sort of,
I did form a band, once, with some schoolmates
& play’d the bass & forg’d the odd lyric
But we drifted adulthoodly apart
For everything dustdwindles in the end

Geno Washington
Unless that dust is stardust, son, listen
Ya gotta get the boys back together
Mark my words, the best thing you’ll ever do
Goddamn it, when you was back in your school
Did you write poetry, some shit like that?

Ian Brown

Geno Washington
Now, I’m being very serious
Composing poems leaves you but an inch
From writing songs, in the music business
That is where the pie is, you’ve got the looks,
You got the personality, & so
All you need to do’s to learn how to sing
& write your own songs, then cooking on gas,
Perform them from an ever-bigger stage.

Ian Brown
Really? You think so?

Geno Washington
I’m speaking the truth,
I’m aint bullshitting you boy, I see things
Sometimes, & tonight I see a shamen,
But you cannot see the secret yourself,
You don’t really know what you got going
You got the looks, the personality
People love you, you’re a goddamn magnet
All you gotta do is write more poems
Then etch those rhymes in music, make pure songs

Ian Brown
Yeah, I’ll look into it, I’ll look into it,

Geno Washington
Good, good, just listen to Uncle Geno
At the start you might sound shit, but hold this
Single thought inside – ‘I’m just warming up,’
The more you do the more you will improve,
You got it in your hand, man, go do this
Youre a star, go do the thing – as for me,
I’m off to find that stunning little Jodie

Ian Brown
{passing back the joint}
OK man, hey, you will be needing this

Exit Geno – Ian stands all alone in the centre of the party with a new sense of purpose

Scene 6

1983: The Hacienda, just before The Smiths come on stage – Lucy is in the crowd, as is Joe : they are dancing to DJ music / Joe sings to/at Lucy

SONG: Lyrical Fireflies

She’s a mystery
Like a troubl’d dream
Then she came up to me
& ask’d me what did I see
I said I’ve seen the sunrise
I said I’ve seen the sunset
Then she dropp’d to her knees
& ask’d me what did I mean
I said you are my firefly

She’s the song of God
We’ve been dreaming of
Then she mention’d the show
& said, ‘would I like to know
I really wanna see them play
I’ve heard they’ve blown the world away’
She pick’d me up by my hand
& with a tactile command
Ask’d us to dance like fireflies

When we listen to the song we are just
Whistling along to the lost messages among
Lyrical educators who entertain us

Now knowing what I’m knowing now
I’d rather be famous & sing to the ravers
I guess that she’s teaching me how

Here’s a song I wrote
So your dreams may float
I’m the best on the scene
& my melody’s green
Like the hills of Northern Thrace
As they soar thro stars & space
While the slide of the waves
Celebrates us in staves
& oer the surf flew fireflies
Oer silver foam flew fireflies
Over the surf flew fireflies

Wow, what’s your name

I’m Joe, nice to meet ya
We totally synchronized then, I stand
Genuflective to thy rampant beauty

A charmer – are you here to see the Smiths

The who?

They will be on in a minute
Honestly, I’ve heard some of their demos
You should stick around

Yeah, I like it here
This amphiktionic party temple
They’ve call’d the Hacienda’s super cool
So, what number are you

What do you men

On your membership card

Oh yeah, hang on
{getting out her yellow membership card}
I’m number five, seven, seven, zero

I’m in the four thousands me, I’m cooler

Fuck off


So, are you a student

How can you tell

Well, yer accent for one

I am Lucy, yeah, well spotted, & you?

I work in a record shop down Northwich

Finger on the pulse

Indeed, hence I’m here

I think I came a litle underdress’d
Its absolutely baltic in my coat

No hypercaustic floor to keep us warm
But sacrifices must be made to gain
Wisdom, this temple of cultural lore
Of holy hymns beneath cathedral roof,
Thro’ omnivagrant symphonies of song,
Defragmentizes, flagshipping focus
Hath given this dark city a future
Beyond the machinations of ‘the Man’

I’m all for it, but the sound’s a bit naff
Like a swimming pool, still it’s my new friend
Always recommending brand new music

Enter The Smiths to a ripple of applause

Talking of which, here come the Smiths, that guy there
Is Morrissey, he’s a Mancunian
A formidable & inventive force
Of poetry sat on searing setting
Of tight drums, guitar-walls & bass lines deep
Form a deft, inflorescence of song, which
Speaketh amazedly, & hath become
My marvel & my message, to the courts
Of Hulme & Gorton, Salford & Chorlton
No worthless emulations, but heroes!
I’d say I was a fan before them seen
Tonight’s the night, I’m glad you’re here to share

Hello we are The Smiths, we are not smiths
We are The Smiths – the only thing to be
In Nineteen Eighty-Three is handsome

The Smiths begin their set…

(Mad) : Scenes 7-9


A cellar in Andy Couzens house ready for band practice : Pete Garner & Ian Brown are playing snooker– enter John Squire who begins setting up

Andy Couzens

John Squire
Hello boys, how are all today

Ian Brown
Not bad, not bad, did that drummer call you
The one from Wythenshaw

John Squire
No he didn’t

Pete Garner
Don’t worry lads, a drummer will turn up

Ian Brown
I’ll just bang on a tamborine, then, yeah?
A bit of a beat is better than none

Andy Couzens
These thoughts of feeling hopeful to our fate
Achilles amid mangl’d Myrmidons
Pompey upon the plains of Pharsalus
With all our inner planets unalign’d
This lack of drums are like the testy waves
Swallowing, confounding navigation
Over waters of creative playing
Where sail these songs of ours, how can we steer
This ship with a casio backing track
When Jutland Jellicoes can take command
Of mighty & magisterial fleets
We need a rhythm admiral, what’s bass
Without a driving pilot, & in time

John Squire
Our muse, it seems, is under house arrest

Pete Garner
Why don’t we somewhere put an advert up
Inviting the right drummer to our song
& chaff timewasting wheat with piquant words

John Squire
Try the A1 on Oxford Road, their kits
Are quality, & should in fact attract
The better mould of beatsman, from which hub,
Let information matrix make the call
& let the question ripple thro the realms
For if The Smiths can do it so can we
Locally rehearsing then important
Band on Top of The Pops

Andy Couzens
Their drummer’s tight

Ian Brown
Its time to ask the gods, you’re right, the gods
Help those who help themselves – but need a name
Upon that point procrastinate no more
Who’d join a band that doesn’t know its self
For ‘tis a name that defines the entire

John Squire
I think I’ve got one

Pete Garner
O yeah, what is it?

John Squire
I’ve listen’d to the whispering world-trees
Then listen’d to our style, punctur’d by punk,
But pepper’d with melodious petals
Of lyrics sharp as daimond-braided drills
Or willow-mellow on the meadow lawn
So something hard with something soft should be
The image that’s projected in the mind
Whene’er our band’s name utter’d, thus therefore,
I’m thinking Stones & Roses sums us up
Earth’s headiness comes with a rose distill’d
Earth’s steadiness made on a bed of stone

Ian Brown
The Stone Roses, yeah, not bad

Andy Couzens
I like it

Peter Garner
It’s definitely not a shit name, but
It’s a bit Rolling Stonesey, is it not

John Squire
I notic’d, yeah, but is that a bad thing
I mean, Exile on Main Street, Paint It Black,
& Jumping Jack Flash, pure perennitas,
Proper tunes, they’re not Shawaddywaddy

Ian Brown
The Stone Roses, yeah, fuckin hell, it works

Andy Couzens
Alright, then, fellow Roses, let us play
What about Trust A Fox

Ian Brown
Yeah, lets do it

John Squire
I’ve been working on a new riff for that

Andy Couzens
Ready Pete

Pete Garner

Andy Couzens

John Squire
{fine tuning his guitar}
Hang on a sec

Ian Brown
Hows the animation coming lads

Pete Garner

John Squire
To get five seconds of footage
It takes five hours,

Pete Garner
& only Sundays
Are we allow’d to work in Cosgrove Hall
So it’s taking proper ages

John Squire
Its fun tho’
Anyway, I’m in

Ian Brown
Reyt then, Trust A Fox
Pete come in after four – one, two, three, four

The Stone Roses play Trust A Fox with Ian Brown playing tamborine


Afllecks Palace – Phil Saxe is keeping his stall

Phil Saxe
Ah! Nineteen Eighty-Four, no George Orwell
Dystopia, but worse than that I feel,
Music & accompanying closets
Bore bland as Barnhill stout on Jura bleak,
But yet unconquer’d by the drain of time
Still brave the first defenders of the breach,
Refusing resolutely not to fail;
This is my shop, my Gangway, & my shield
The epicenter of the Perry Boys
On Arndale’s upper level, selling clothes
No other shop would e’er admit to hang
For fear of losing street-cred in an age
Where streets more morgues, let fashion splash oer lives
Of strange days in day-glo, long overcoats,
Too much mascara, everywhere stiff hair,
Condemn them all like the Crescents of Hulme
For grooving as a guru of good taste
To tunes rarer than a rocking horse shit
I’ll sell that tip-top clobber to robbers
Down alleys, students & scallys..

Enter Donna & Lucy with palm tree haircuts – hair scraped back bunched up & tied on top of their heads

Oi mate!

Phil Saxe
Alright girls

You got any flares

Phil Saxe
You what

You deaf or summat

You got any flares

Phil Saxe
I heard you the first time, no-one wears flares
These days

Precisely, that’s why we want them
Dogs might gorge on carrion, but not wolves,
We aint no sheeple, we’re shepherdesses
In foxy dresses, whatever feels good,
& honestly, everyone looks like dicks

So mate, have you got any flares or what?

Phil Saxe
Its funny you should ask, it’s all as if
Three Serendip princesses seize my stall,
This morning, in a random box, I bought
Off some Iranians, I found three pairs
Of levis just your size – you want to try
Them on, they’re looking a little bit tight,
But you girls are slim, you should pull ‘em off

Yeah, nice one, let us take a look at ‘em

Phil Saxe
Wait there a minute, I’ll just dig ‘em out

Enter Alisha clutching the Blue Monday single

I got it

Nice one

Phil Saxe
Here you go ladies
Ah, Blue Monday, that’s such a wicked track

I know, heard it on my holidays last week
Its all over the Benidorm beaches
I can’t believe we miss’d it first time round

Phil Saxe
Better late than never – just like these flares

Cheers, we’ll just try ‘em on here – that alright?

Phil Saxe
Guess so

Oi mate! Change that music its shit

Phil Saxe
I’ll have you know that’s…

We don’t care, change it

Something decent we can sing a long to

Phil Saxe
Alright, alright, stifle your stingers girls

As the girls start getting changed Phil changes the music


You’d better believe us when we say
We are the last ones feeing the vibes
Who never say never to come out & play
If the disco beat is alive
Then there’s the seventies vibe

See us strutting around as we’re making up rhymes
Knowing that she’s looking fly girl
Gazing around at your dumb fashion crimes
Pulling the fun outta my world
It’s a trip when you rip up society

18 inches of glory up over my boots
I’m bellbottom denim running down to my roots
Gonna stitch the sixties into my jeans
Goin’ topless, bangin tamborines
Inside a seventies scene

See us strutting around as we’re making up rhymes
Wham bam glam of a geisha
Gazing around at your dumb fashion crimes
Mad Donna, Lucy D & Alisha
It’s a trip when you slip from society

Who wears flares
We do
Who wins dares
You gotta be true
Who wears flares
We do
Who Wears Flares
The Funky Flares Crew

Yeah, they look great, we’ll take ‘em

How much mate

Phil Saxe
Eh, give me a tenner for the lot girls

Bargain, thanks

Here you go Mr Saxe

Phil Saxe

Any chance you can get any more in

Phil Saxe
Probably, there’s warehouses full of flares
Out Oldham way

Well, we’ll be back next week


Shall we go & get some scran now

Exit the girls just as the Happy Mondays & Cressa enter the shop wearing paisley shirts flowery shirts little beards

Alright boys

{pointing at the flares}
Where d’ya get those babies from

{pointing to Phil}
He had some

Yo Phil, got any more flares

Phil Saxe
Not you as well – give me a week or two
I’ll source some out – Alright Shaun

Alright Phil

Phil Saxe
Paul… & the rest of you scooby-doo beatniks
Can I help

We’re just having a bimble

Is it true you dj’d the Twisted Wheel

Phil Saxe
It is, yeah, original northern soul
Before twas even call’d that

Yo Phil
How much is this shirt

Phil Saxe
That’s fifteen quid mate

I heard you love your Stax

Phil Saxe
The faster stuff
I used to import from America
Before you know it everyone’s Bruce Lee
Karate Kicking to Otis Redding

That’s cool that mate, so you know your music

Phil Saxe
You could say that, well I know good music

Can we give you a tape

Phil Saxe
What of

Our band

Phil Saxe

What, you’ve got a band, you bunch of Scallys

We do

We’re the Happy Mondays

Phil Saxe
The what

The Happy Mondays

Phil Saxe
That’s a daft name lads

Yeah, but its our name, anyway, its here

Phil Saxe
Alright, I’ll give it a listen today
If its any good I’ll pass it to Mike


Phil Saxe
Mike Pickering, a good mate of mine
He books the bands for the Hacienda
Might be able to get you a gig one day

That’d be mint mate, nice one

Our number’s
Well us mam’s, is written on the cassette

Phil Saxe
I’ll fling a tinkle if its any good

That’s sweet that – well, its time to do one, mate

Thanks for listening Phil

Phil Saxe
Not a problem

Come on lads, lets find those flare-wearing girls
By the hope I have of heavenly bliss
I sense the blond doth fancy me, I swear

Fucks sake Shaun yer like a rampant rabbit

Exit the Happy Mondays & Cressa – PD has stolen a shirt


1984 Werrington House Detention Centre, Stoke – the goveRnor’s office – he is sat at his desk – there is a knock at the door

Come in, come in!

Enter Guard & Bez

Govenor Williams

Aha – Mister Berry – we meet again

Sorry sir, I’ve been keepin my nose clean

I have noticed as much, well done young man
But why on earth inject such incidence
Into your world as that little outburst
Your release date’s rapidly approaching
But set it back at least a fortnight
So tell me what John happen’d exactly

Well, sir, we were handing out the letters
When he refused & said, do you recall
Do you remember what you said

I do

Can you repeat it for the governor
{Bez remains silent}
I Have written it down word for word sir
‘I’m not feffing sitting like a kid with my finger on my lips waiting for no feffing letters anymore. I don’t want any feffing letters anyway & I don’t want to send any effer a letter either. Eff the lot of you

That’s a lot of effing & jeffing Mark

Sorry, Mr Governor, sir, it just
Its just I’m wound up to the maximum
I’m seeing a procession of people
Flit from this joint who came here after me
Days on days of shabby desert weather
Have totally been doing my head in

Well, Mark, look, Mark, I will only add one week
To your total, which means there’s but a month
To go, when all of this shall be over
For you at least, control your self til then
Do I have your word

You do sir, promise

Good – I’ve met your father you know – good man
Brilliant officer, & how on earth
Would sons of such fine policemen turn’d to crime

My dad is like double authority
& I was born with a rebel streak, sir

Has it remained, or has the short sharp shock
Of liberty’s loss refurbish’d thy strains

Sir, I’ve never cleaned so much in my life
& shave my face each morning, all despite
No hairs there ever venture cheek & chin
My boots are always spotless, yes I’ve chang’d
& know I never wanna waste my daylight
Inside a cell again

That’s good to hear
If I return thee to society
Without proper skillsets to march in time
I’d be showing contempt to mine office
So when you leave this house of detention
What intends thee, truly, in the jungle

I wanna dance sir, & fly with the birds
Proper nice birds, never squirm with the rats,
Because, from dawn til dreaming, all the day,
I love tunes, its all about the music

Do you play anything




Can you sing

Definitely not

You would want to open a record shop

Can’t, sir, I’m a dyslexic with numbers

There does not seem to be many options
For you to forge a career in music

But sir, I got it beating within me
I can feel it

Well, very good Berry
Are you going to go graffito crude
Or write your name in glory cross the stars
A child with integrity prospers well
Now off you go, & behave yourself, yes

Yes sir

Come on fella, back to your cells

Exit Bez whistling the guitar melody of Wrote For Luck

(Mad) Scenes: 10-12

SCENE 10: The Hacienda, 1984

The Tube are filming in Manchester for Channel 4. Jools Holland is interviewing Mike Pickering while Madonna is preparing to perform. In the background Tom Hingley is collecting glasses.

Jools Holland
‘Tis the bitter month of Lenaion
When winter seems to drag her barren heels
A January Friday afternoon
Outside raining, yet inside we’re aglow
With heavy hues of music, within
This Whitworth Street basilica of song,
Where we have now return’d, advertisements
Over, so lets speak to Mike Pickering
The man who books the Hacienda bands
Hello Mike

Mike Pickering
Hello Jules, thanks for coming
To Manchester

Jools Holland
Our pleasure, so tell us
What was the Factory All-Star line-up
Just seen on Channel Four

Mike Pickering
Yes, they were great,
Our label’s finest soldiers, some were drawn
From A Certain Ratio, Quando Quango,
Durutti Column added to the blend

Jools Holland
So when you’re booking bands, what kind of spice
Dost tease thee most, enticing to invite?

Mike Pickering
Let us make the timing tangible, Jools,
For fashionable, unfashionable,
Just shortest hours divide, Fame’s fickle house
No mercy shows, for us the transition
Twyx adulation & irrelevance
The time most prime, when crossing Rubicon
The perfect stage, some barge with full back line,
The Hacienda senators behind
Upon the banks, off-waving to the wars

Jools Holland
& what of Manchester, Mike, I have heard
Of streets full of Pickering’s rich pickings

Mike Pickering
Tis truth indeed, this city doth posess
The best young band collection in the land
All pregnant with phenomenality
Here groups are plants, whom daily harvesting
The primary energy of music,
Trapping its rays like epos did the bards,
Whose evolutive offer’d leaves freely
To every community who loves
To eat this holy herbage of the North

Jools Holland
That’s excellent, Manchester’s one to watch
As is our next performer, Madonna
Pray tell us how she came to Manchester

Mike Pickering
Well, Jools, I was gallanting up New York
With Quando Quango, our song, Love Tempo,
Mark Kamins remixed deftly, & was heard
By DJ Larry Levan, he loved us
& let us play his Paradise Garage,
A live PA, we met Madonna there,
As Kamin’s girlfirend she thrives on the scene,
Whose overwhelming inner light lets shine,
& so a strong connection was assured
Twyx northern cities & their sattelites,
So we welcome their first ambassadress
Futurity’s iconaclast assur’d

Jools Holland
This is her first show beyond New York, yes

Mike Pickering
It is, yes

Jools Holland
So, from northern Michigan
Via New York, once a backing singer
With disco legend Patrick Hernandez
Fairest in voices, fortunately met
With moves to make a ballerina blush
Proud upon her first album’s pinions
Oer oceans rovethose gods made destinate
As when Charles Lindbergh soloist spirit
Hover’d, those three score years, less three, ago
Over waves of a vasty Atlantic,
As Lucky Lindi lands at Le Bourget
We give you the divine & the lovely
Daughter of the goddesses, Madonna!

Madonna performs ‘Holiday’ on the Hacienda dance floor with backing dances – at the end of the gig she is approached by Rob Gretton

Rob Gretton
That was great! Amazing even! Stunning!
& I stand antiblanch’d by style’s import
My name is Rob, Rob Gretton

& you are

Rob Gretton
I run this place, & if you’re still around
Tonight, we’ve got an excellent DJ
When, if you want, you could perform once more

How much

Rob Gretton
Eh – fifty quid for half an hour

Fuck off – lets go guys – step out from this dump’s,
Damp, shovelboard floor, I’m here for TV
Not some drunken, dirty hoard of vikings
I fucking hate Manchester, Les goddams !

Exit Madonna & her backing dancers

Jools Holland
Madonna, hey Madonna, wait for me

Rob Gretton
She’s so fucking cool, Mike

Mike Pickering
Yeah, I know, mate

SCENE 11: Feb, 1984, Drone Studios, Chorlton

Tony Wilson enters the studios where The Smiths are winding up rehearsals. He is being filmed for television.

Tony Wilson
Welcome to downtown Chorlton-cum-Hardy
Seeking the verve of this week’s NME
Upon whose velvet cover I there see
This charming man, Morrissey, from The Smiths
Whose group voted these year’s first ranking band
Whose album slots, directly, number one,
What is it all about, this fandango?
This sheer quirky, mandrake electrolier
Seducing thro’ Manchester’s monotones
Well, let’s see, the troops are in the plaza
The city’s pride & joy, as cross the land
Young broadsheets proclaim their fame in ballads
Whose nation-tour commences in a week
Their farther stars approaching ever near
For they are four, as corners form a square
& squares the very brickwork of our lives,
There is to bands an alchemie of minds
Each wielding inorganic instruments
Whose spirit-sound develops & evolves
Lives of their own, more perfect & alive
Behold the very bedrock of all groups
The drummer & the prince who who plays the bass
Mike Joyce & Andrew Michael Rourke, hello

Michael Joyce

Andy Rourke

Tony Wilson
Telle me do you get annoy’d
That all attention smiles on Morrissey

Andy Rourke
Well we know we are appreciated,
But if we’re not on TV every hour
Delevering endless interviews – fine

Michael Joyce
We are happy to be in the background
Our time will come

Tony Wilson
Elucidate yourselves
Via your album, The Smiths by The Smiths

Michael Joyce
Diligence increaseth the fruits of toil
& gratitude’s a cultivated fruit
Its great to hear the truthvein thro’ our sound
We’ve taped a few rehersals, heard them back
As sonic dirt in dirges, then pristeen
& clean our songs, when heard did startle all,
There’s bliss in an old scrap of poetry
But paradise in a freshly printed page

Tony Wilson
So how would you define the sound you heard

Andy Rourke
The Smiths sound like, well, The Smiths

Michael Joyce
Its just us
We cover lot of bases versatile

Tony Wilson
If every rhythm section is the sea
& singers are the steerers of the ships
Then whom the vessels form’d by floating chords?
If ever, then, the cult of Morrissey
Was under any formal threat, there grows
An acolytic worship-moat around
The tuneful fretwork prun’d by Mister Marr
So, Johnny, what makes this group so special

Johnny Marr
We are very strong will’d – what we want, know
Expansive in our vision to invade
The very charcuterie of Britain

Tony Wilson
So, now the tide’s retreated, & the brine
Transfer’d from the rockpools onto vinyl
What regard, do you hold, for your album

Johnny Marr
Felicitously blissful, clear sky rare
Tis a dual signal post in music
Guitars are good & songs can still be sung
If you have something & youre very sure Of all its meritous glaciation
Why hide its wonders, let the wide world hear!

Tony Wilson
What is your style, your playing style, what say?

Johnny Marr
I would say my style’s basic influence
Immixes sequences of impulses
American blues, English folk guitar
There’s a lot of space to fill, especially
Live, & so I ramp up my aggressives
With rockabilly scatter’d thro the sound

Tony Wilson
Congratulations, Johnny, you have brought
The old guitar to fashion’s brow once more
But can you tell me of your melodies
From whence they spring?

Johnny Marr
The answer I don’t know,

Tony Wilson
That’s exactly what Mozart used to say

Johnny Marr

Tony Wilson

Johnny Marr
Hip guy

Tony Wilson
& here’s the singer
Stephen from Stretford, now more pros’prous known
By an inflaming surname, Morrissey
The clutcher of the philosopher’s stone
When rendering opinions, & so
Stephen, I mean Morrissey, we can talk Of art, or the gladioli hanging
From thy back pocket, let us talk instead
Of scandal – your latest controversy
Begins within the needles widest grooves
Opening lines of the opening track
Belligerent ghouls run Manchester schools
Was taken injurious, upsetting
Manchester’s education committee

Tony Wilson
I’m not surprised?

Why art thou not surprised?

Because it proffers an attack on them
Fullermost deserv’d, their pupils treated
Contemptuous, as cash-calves in a drove

Tony Wilson
Is this your personal experience

Entirely so, a widespread sentiment
I’m sure, as from the amount of letters
Penn’d to us, of this track the sole concern
It seems to mean a great deal to people
& that the album’s perch’d at number one Means more must be in favour than against

Tony Wilson
I must now ask you what right does the fact
That being now a successful pop star
You comment glibly on local concerns
& quip on politics with nocturne phrase

My opinion’s if popular singers
Say not such things then who is left to cry
Fiend, foul, corruption, whichever sin
Society’s improvers have absorb’d
& when the floods of rotten deeds subside
We can’t have faith in playwrights any more
We can’t have faith in film stars, young people
Barely care about these dying artforms
Implications popular music
Is that of tender foals agraze in fields
Or wives coddl’d by Victorian oafs
It can be there, but let’s not say anything
Terribly important, just stick to disco
Or whatever – there’s an obligation
Felt by us in our duty’s cosmic core

Tony Wilson
There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask
On seeing the the genius in your eyes
I always thought you’d be our novelist
Our dear Dostoevsky of Davyhulme
But why did you want to be a pop star

Many reasons, it doesn’t make life worse
It’s quite interesting, try it one day

Tony Wilson
Perhaps I shall, it has been a pleasure
Stephen, & the rest of the band… The Smiths

The filming finishes

That was great Tony, well done,

Tony Wilson
Thank-you Keith
Where’s the best pub round here, lads, I’m buying

12: February 1984, Decibel Studios, Ancoats

Ian Brown, Pete Garner & John Squires are preparing for rehearsals

Ian Brown
Did you win a ballblast, last night, Peter

Pete Garner
Too right I did, this village Manchester
Turns up odd nights of impudicity –
I was leaping & dancing, sentient
With all around me, man, speed & acid
Are quite the cocktail combination boys

John Squire
Had any kip

Pete Garner
Not really, but I’m reyt
Nothing another little dab won’t sort

Enter Andy Couzens with Reni who is wearing a big long coat, stretch denim jeans & big furry moon boots

Andy Couzens
Gentlemen, I give you Alan John Wren
Or Reni as he teold me he preferr’d
Alright lads

Ian Brown

John Squire
Welcome to Ancoats

Pete Garner
You saw the advertisement in A1

I’ve still got it in my my pocket

Ian Brown
You what?
Some natural compulsion made me tear
It from the wall, I hope that you don’t mind

Pete Garner
How conspiratorial

Andy Couzens
That’s funny

John Squire
But if you’re shit, promise to put it back

I’m not shit, lads, promise

Andy Couzens
Al-, ehm reni

Andy Couzens
Ian, Pete & Johnny; vocals, bass, guitar
I play rhythm, we are all set up
The kits fully furnish’d with breakables
So off we go when you’re ready

Nice one
Who writes the songs?

John Squire
Me & Ian mostly
Living vague, unsubtantiated lives
Enhances entrancing spectaculums
Where life & deep ambitions interweave
In perfect purpose, yinlyanging thro’
Days of dreaming music, bandmates, brothers,
Fully focuss’d on crafting artefacts
Seignory over immortality

Ian Brown
What about you, Reni, what’s your motif

I’m Stinker, I’m Smelly, New Wave Metal,
Join Donnington’s rock monsters every year
I’m Gorton born, play in local rock bands
Roaming pub circuits upon mini tours
But once the evalesco’s blown it’s storm
I rush to my vocal harmony group

Pete Garner
Wow, soft & hard mate, perfect for the band

Ian Brown
We could do with some backing harmonies
So, who’s your fav’rite band?


John Squire

They’re great

Andy Couzens
Yeah, whatever, but you’re ready to jam now

Yep, that’s me

John Squire
This one’s Tragic Roundabout

Pete Garner
I’ll just set the tape going

Ian Brown
So listen
We’ll start off without ya, have a listen
A few minutes, however long it takes
Then join us when you’re sailing on the sound


Andy Couzens
Alright gentlemen,… two, three, four

The band begin playing Tragic Roundabout. After ten seconds Reni begins playing like Keith Moon, full of effortless double hits – at the end of the song there is a stunn’d silence

Too much, eh?

Ian Brown
No mate that was fucking great

John Squire
That might be the best we’ve ever sounded

Andy Couzens
That’s some proper mad hatter, Keith Moon shit!
The kit seem’d an extension of thyself

Your music made me truly ruminate
On Schubert’s D minor, Death & the Mains,
Which opens, a sharp call to attention,
Bold rhythm pushes forwards the idea
Like passionganger angry, remorseless

Andy Couzens
What did you think, more to the point, of us
I mean, it feels like you’re in the band now


Yeah, why not, you’ve got something going here
I’m not quite sure what, as yet, but sense
Streams of silverdust lacing the racket
I love your tough integument & vibe,
While anyone committed as you are
To making music, men of my own style
That sense of belief I feel in you all
Infectious, you seem a solid band
There’s a tall one, thin one, hard one, soft one,
A well-rounded mix

Ian Brown
We’re going to be
The biggest band on the planet one day

John Squire
Shall we try another?
Lets play Adored

Pete Garner
This is a good one Reni, nice bass line
Repeats itself the epic songscape thro

The Stone Roses play I Wanna Be Adored

(Mad) : 13-15

SCENE 13: Summer 1985, The Hacienda

Mike Pickering & Peter Hook are in the Gay Traitor at the Hacienda – the Happy Mondays are drinking at another table

Mike Pickering
I’ve got to admit I’m loving the tape
Who is the singer

Phil Saxe
It’s that lad there, Shaun
The scally prince, encentr’d in his pals

Mike Pickering
Well, he souds bit like Fergal Sharkey
Tries to impersonate Ian Curtis
But massive are his spirit’s melodies
Stringing Joycean streams of consciousness
Like flying falcons flashing swift, serene,
Across the Happy Monday’s wondersound
The fragrant scent of a rich-bodied wine
That’s yet in a bottle of white lightning
I hear the sea blue holy birds of song
Hovering above your iron forge grooves
Strutting rythyms dominated by bass
Hypnotic, repetetive, relentless,
Smart guitar’s arpeggios somatic

Phil Saxe
I’m gonna start a movement with these lads
That Shaggy, Scooby Doo look will glow great
Apparell’d in bell bottoms from my shop

Peter Hook
Tell me that you are both fucking joking
That fractious rabble of Dickensian
Ne’er-do-wells bubbling from the sink estates
Of Little Hulton like sewerage ooze,
More likely to achieve their slice of fame
Upon CCTV than MTV
To sign such a bunch of ill-manner’d scroats
On the basis of one tape, ignoring
Plenteous innate dodginess, insane!

Phil Saxe
Better to catch a cygnet than a swan

Peter Hook
To sign another band now makes no sense
From the initial estimate, they said
Seventy Thousand, half a million
Drain’d from the office coffers, each grand scheme
Of architecture needeth paying for
& Hacienda hospitality
Dressing rooms decorated flowers
& riders even film stars would approve
Fritters money away like ten-arm’d men
& stock take’s just a joke, you’ll spot our staff
From clutching beer-crates on their journeys home
Its us, New Order, buying them their booze

Enter Tony Wilson & Rob Gretton

Tony Wilson
Hello! Hello! good evening everyone
Where are they then, today’s starling darlings
Can it be these adorn’d paisley shirts
Are you the Happy Mondays, whom I’ve heard
Are possibly the greatest thing since… me

Phil Saxe

Tony Wilson
Mr Saxe

Phil Saxe
May I introduce
Shaun & Paul, they’re brothers, Mark, Paul, PD

Tony Wilson
Welcome within the Hacienda, boys
This is the Gay Traitor’s inner sanctum
& where the best of business undertook
So Shaun is the singer, right

Shaun Ryder
I am, yeah

Tony Wilson
Then let us have a private tete-a-tete

Rob Gretton
Who wants a drink, lads, on Factory

Paul Ryder
Dya have any of those fancy cocktails

Rob Gretton
How about a ‘slow hot fuck on the beach,’
Its absinth whipp’d cream & caramel
Its absolutely fuckin’ delicious

Paul Ryder
Aye, go on then

Mark Day
Can I have a tetleys

Rob Gretton
Coming Phil, I’ll get you one as well

Phil Saxe

The Happy Mondays (minus Shaun), Phil Saxe & Rob Gretton go to the bar

Tony Wilson
Your full name

Shaun Ryder
Shaun William George Ryder

Tony Wilson
Where are ya from

Shaun Ryder
Salford, different breed,
Home of the Salford Sioux, Buffalo Bill
Had come to town with Little Bighorn braves
& his Wild West show, then they dissapear’d
Vanish’d under the arches at Greengate
Wanted by Washington’s authorities
But hidden by locals, war warriors
Had won their respect, felt a kindred kind,
A century later lacing our veins
Races native American blood!

Tony Wilson
Good, without Salford Manchester’s dull
A lesser constellation it would be
Without jabbering authenticity
For we are all of Lyra, in the north
& this great city Vega, why would I
Want to ever leave here, as a farmer
Enjoys his fertile pastures, so do I,
Fuck London’s major music business schmaltz
This urban sprawl of ours contains the best
Of songsmiths & musicians, & your boys
Among them, I’m delighted to meet you

Shaun Ryder
We’ve kind of met before, well, in a way,
I went to see the Buzzcocks at Belle Vue
I was a sixteen-year-old terrier
& saw you there, & threw my plastic pint
Right at your head

Tony Wilson
I don’t remember that

Shaun Ryder
It missed, destroy’d some lassies mohican
She weren’t impress’d

Tony Wilson
I bet she wasn’t Shaun

Shaun Ryder
I was just showing appreciation
I grew up watching Granda Reports
& loved ‘So It Goes,’ how Joy Division
& the Buzzcocks wer bothy Manchester bands
& you’d put them on the television
I was, I am, I’ll always be a fan

Tony Wilson
Why do you want to sign to Factory

Shaun Ryder
Its all about the freedom of focus

Shaun Ryder
Let Paul’s sole purpose be his bass-playing,
Mine lyrics, & smoking lots of Dennis

Tony Wilson

Shaun Ryder
Dennis Law, draw

Tony Wilson
I like a smoke
Anything good going around your way

Shaun Ryder
Got some lovely squidgy black in from France

Tony Wilson
Ooo – I ‘an’t ‘ad any black for ages
But let us drop digression from discourse
To succeed you have to be your own band
Carve market-slices being just yourselves
As a lie never lives to growing old
Ignore the perfum’d pomp of popular
You have evolved from leaping ancestors
To true flying fish, exocoetidae,
A product of smirking stirpiculture

Enter Mike Pickering & Rob Gretton

Mike Pickering
So, Tony how’s it going

Tony Wilson
You were right

These boys are something else, & if you want
To sign them you can sign them

Mike Pickering
You mean that

Tony Wilson
Of course, welcome to Factory Records

Shaun Ryder
You fucking dancer, Tony, nice one mate

Rob Gretton
I want to put you on with New Order

Tony Wilson
Its time to embark on something diff’rent–
To break the past’s inextensible hold
Lets be Stravinskys, Bartoks, Hindemiths
Antiromantic neoclassicals
Whatever it takes to drive phasmatics
Out of our zeitgeist, forging better things
The psychedelic carriage of your dream
Clad in our company’s crabskin armour
Will start or end the business of revolt
Against the lary, lager-swilling herds
Packing discos with drivel & dribble
Across the land; the fates have chosen us
This thunderclap, this scourge, this Manchester
To render the true British genius –
From Italy painting, from Russia prose,
From Austria, Germany, opera
But Britain has its songs & poetry
& you, Shaun Ryder, are its fresh glory

Shaun Ryder
So, Tony, what about the contract, mate

Rob Gretton
Well, Factory don’t do contracts

Shaun Ryder
They don’t

Mike Pickering
There‘s not an advance either, however
This is a meritocracy, do well
& you’ll get paid, its all up to yourselves

Shaun Ryder

Fair enough

Rob Gretton
We’ll pay for your recordings
& tours all the other things, but not
Money in your bank accounts directly
Until your records sell

Shaun Ryder
That’s brilliant

Tony Wilson
There’s a wonderful quote
From Samuel Cornelius Phillips
You know, the Sun Studios in Memphis
Allow musicians the space to expect
The freedom to find what they want to do
Well, nice to meet you Shaun, I must be off
The local council has sent in its scouts
Some license or other we’ve neglected
I’ll see you soon

Shaun Ryder
Nice one, Tony

Tony Wilson
Bye boys

Exit Tony wilson

Mike Pickering
Manchester’s maverick pain in the arse

Who drives us round the bend, who’s heart of gold
Enables all of this; blissful ignorance,
Luck, cheek & magic; the Factory firm
Has seen a mirror image in your band
Among the fake fables & platitudes
The modern music scene has fast become
Mark my words, the Happy Mondays will shine!

SCENE 14: Old Wellington Inn, Manchester, Summer 1985

Garry Johnson

Garry Johnson & his photographer, Bob, are waiting in the Old Wellington Inn

Manchester is such a fucking shit hole
A horrible, a dirty, scruffy place

Garry Johnson
Its not so bad, I’ve got family here
You’ve got to love the northern way of life
A neon light in a shite grubby sea
As London is all anonymity
Manchester’s just a family of friends

So why the Stone Roses, what’s so special
About that demo tape to come this far

Garry Johnson
Its like, I hear a calling of the tribes
& the celebration of a nation,
In mutters of discovering powers
There’s something quite organic in the sound
Like jessamine awash in honeydew
Mixt with the edginess of urban drudge,
There’s hope & beauty, clumping pain & loss
& hear they come, all four of them, at last

Enter the Stone Roses

Garry Johnson
Hello lads, which one is Ian,

Ian Brown
I am

Garry Johnson
Nice one – thanks for getting in touch with me

Ian Brown
Safe, mate, I’m a fan of your poetry

Garry Johnson
Sweet, so, this is my photographer, Bob
We’ll do the shots after we’ve ended here
Bob, get the drinks in, what ya having lads

I’ll have a coke

Pete Garner
Me too

Ian Brown
A coffee please

Garry Johnson
You guys don’t drink

Andy Couzens
Never in the day times

John Squire
I sometimes have a tipple – rum & coke

Andy Couzens
Can you get me a lager shandy please

I’ll bring them over

Garry Johnson
Take a seat here lads
Ian, I’m so glad you sent me the tape,
Its not been off at the Sounds office since
You do not need to be a Mystic Meg
To understand your massiveness at hand

Ian Brown
Glad you like it, we’re excited you’re here
I’ve bought a copy of Sounds e’ery week
E’er since I can remember, so am chuff’d
The band’s first interview will be with you

Andy Couzens
John Squire
You’re much better than Melody Maker
& NME, that’s for sure

Garry Johnson
We do try
So let’s begin shall we, this dictaphone
Shall capture all we say, to be transcrib’d
{Garry sets the tape going}
So, as we reach the end of eighty-four
How do you see the voyage of thy verve
Crossing unpathed waters to shores yet dreamed
& do you have set goals

Ian Brown
Of course we do
But not one of ordinary design
We want to fly, but not by flapping arms
Like all the normal aviary beaks

Andy Couzens
We want to be unique in projection
But forced to out of keen neccessity
Factory do not like us, that’s for sure
Tony Wilson hates us, resentments surge
Thro tribal stances & dirty verdicts
With us you hear the fiuture of music
Against us, a tuneless metal racket
We polarize opinion

Garry Johnson
Do you find
Tony Wilson’s power in the city
Has undermin’d your cause

It fucking has
He is actively trying to stop us
Doing anything, each corner’s turn
He’s always there shutting the fucking door

Pete Garner
It seems like we’re on the city’s black-list
& getting gigs a nightmare no young band
Should ever have to honestly endure

Ian Brown
So we’ve tried something diff’rent as we are
Opposed to all of those raincoat-wearting
Cliquey & elitist Manchester bands

John Squire
Weve played a lot in london – to define
Ourselves as a national band, not just Manchester

This city’s a wilderness of venues
But down in London we’ve already play’d
The Moonlight Club, The ad Lib, The Marquee,
Dimngwalls in Camden, The Greyhounf, Fulham,
The first stage Jimi Hendrix ever graced
When he first came to England, sixty-six

Garry Johnson
What do you think of the Hacienda?

John Squire
We’re anti-Factory, so its shit
But not because of that, because it is

Ian Brown
Its empty, its freezing, the bands hate those
Diabolical, echoing acoustics
Intefering with the sound, messy mix
Of dodgy pitches in a big tin box

Andy Couzens
Factory’s pretentiousness incarnate
Their cultish, media-power’d hipness
Suffocates the city, brainwash binges
Marketed in coffee shops by muppets
Clad in dark overcoats, swapping vignettes
On poetry & weird subtitl’d films

Garry Johnson
You’re about to do something diff’rent, right,
To burst thy matrix straightjacket, a gig
In a warehouse

Pete Garner
That’s right, the Flower Show

Here we go

Garry Johnson
Thank-you Bob

No problemo

Bob hands out the drinks

I’ll just go on the fruity for a bit

Garry Johnson
The Flower Show, tell me all about it

Ian Brown
Beyond the local treadmill band support
We needed something to give us an edge
Operating outside the manual
That turns all groups pedestrian, to bores
So Stevie Adge epiphanized the deed
A warehouse party at the heart of town,
He’d gone to one down Hackey, East London
& saw a most definite potential
To do the same in relique Manchester
& say fuck you to Wilsons of this world

John Squire
As when the blessed Michelangelo
Marble carv’d from the Carrara quarries
Creating the heartbreaking Pieta
& David, more lifelike than life itself
We’ll make those bricks & mortar come alive

How much more time & headspace does one gain
Not looking at your neighbours acts & thoughts
But only at the things one does oneself
Tho’ ephemeral fame’s for the masses
Convention’s paths legends never follow

Garry Johnson
So, what shall be the running gist tonight

Andy Couzens
The plan is to play inbetween DJs
An all night party, actively apart
From all those sterile, beaurocratic beers

Ian Brown
A generation wishing it was born
Forty years ago, to breathe the sixties
Now makes its mythomemes, of better dreams
Topping all legends chronicled before

Garry Johnson
So where’s the gig, how do I find you boys


Well, keep it quiet, mate, but Fairfield Street,
Beside the Star & Garter, just behind
Piccadilly Station, where you shall find
A spacious, disused British Railways arch

Pete Garner
We’re not sure if anyone will turn up
But hopefully they will, including you

Garry Johnson
Of course we’ll be there, who’s else expected

John Squire
Despite we’ve never play’d a gig at home
There’s many Mancs already on our side
We’d gave a demo to Tony The Greek
On Piccadilly Radio was play’d
Receiv’d a rare, overwhelming response
& we were soon book’d to do a live show
Bootlegs of which I hear in passing cars

Garry Johnson
That’s great – I’m sure its gonan be pack’d out
Your music is the freshest thing I’ve heard
In quite a while, so lads, shall we begin
The shoot


Garry Johnson
Bob, hey Bob, the boys are primed & ready
For all your magic moves behind the lens

Alright lads, follow me, I’ve got a plan
I wanna mix urban depravation
With northern swagger by graffiti glazed

Exit John , Andy, Pete, Reni & Bob

Ian Brown
Nice to meet you Gary

Garry Johnson
You too Ian
My pleasure, I am a fan already
& as a writer love your lyric-blade
A sharp & bloodstain’d weapon awesome forg’d
Do you realise how evocative
How enigmatic & how intriguing
Your words which work on so many levels,
& just how deepy powerful they are

Ian Brown
There’s not a thing I do not think about

Exit Ian Brown

SCENE 15: Fairfield Street, Manchester

The Stone Roses just finish their penultimate song of their set at The Flower Show. Ian in black cropp’d hair moves in & out the crowd, Andy Couzens weaves about the stage, Reni is stripp’d topless & is rushing on amphetamines

Ian Brown
Thanks to all who came, a famous display
We really appreciate the trouble
Each one of you has taken to get here
A lovely mix of funksters, goths & punks
Time underlines thy final chance to dance
Anyone who’s anybody knows it
So this is the last song – This Is Tell Me

The Stone Roses play Tell Me

(Mad): 16-18

SCENE 16: Joe’s flat, Hulme

Joe, Lucy, Alisha & Clint Boon arrive, fresh from the Warehouse Party

That was fucking buzzing that was

I know
Walking home from town in a solar beam
The Roses & the Sunshine in our souls
& what a time to be alive this morn

Welcome to my gaff, Clint

Clint Boon
I like yer art

Joseph’s a student up at Manny Met

Being here’s my life’s practical praxis
Ideas all exploding oer my walls
I came to do it, I’m here doing it

What’ve yer got to drink, spitting feathers here
This party’s only semifactus turn’d

Me too, I’m thirsty as fuck, & my throat’s
Rough as those wartime cigarettes Gauloise

I’ll knock up a gaggle of Manhattans

Clint Boon
A what

A Manhattan, it’s a cocktail

Clint Boon
What’s in ‘em

Whiskey, vermouth & bitters
Invented in New York’s Manhattan club
Sometime back in the nineteenth century

Clint Boon

Where’s the weed, I’m gonna skin up

In that box on the coffee table, babe

Clint Boon
That was such a brilliant plethora
Of brilliant songs play’d brilliantly

What’s your name again

Clint Boon
I’m Clint
Clint Boon

I’m sure I’ve seen you play somewhere

Clint Boon
You might have, I play keyboards for The Mill
I’ve built a studio out at Ashton
In a cool old mill call’d Guide Bridge, its great
You should come out to check it out sometime

How did you get to hear about the gig

Clint Boon
I was at the Hacienda one night
& stepp’d outside for some fresh air relief
When someone thrust a flier in my hand
To call the number on the night inside
Music, mystery & the Stone Roses,
A matchless, Manchester combination

Anyone fancy Aztec Camera

Put them on

I love this new album, Knife

Clint Boon
I haven’t heard it

Side Two’s the best one
It starts with ‘All I Need Is Everything’

I love that new wave guitar, funky, jangly

They’re not the Roses tho

{passing round drinks}
No, far from it
How does one compare incomparable
That party was the holy cow of cool
A bewildering, crowded mix of youth cults
Punks, Goths, Perry Boys, skinheads & students
The tribes were all united, sang as one
The choruses of one young gorgeous group


It’s been a while since I’ve seen so many
People having such a buzzing party

That Reni was on superb form last night

Clint Boon
I heard destiny’s thrum in those drums

I fuckin love his style, a mix’d phalanx
Of jazz & rock & reggae, what a star
He’s an entertainer in his own right

He can sing as well, another level
To the Roses secret weapon unleash’d

The way he presses that contralto pitch
Like a dagger against Ian Brown’s throat

Clint Boon
I’d heard he’d taken speed tonight

Had he
Talking of which, anybody want some

Clint Boon
I’ll have a line, yeah,

Me too

Not me, babe
I’ve got to be in work by 12 o clock

Do you want me to call in sick for you
We could even have a little lie in

Ehhh – o fuck it, go on, chop one out
For us will ya, I’m due a day off


Clint Boon
Tonight felt intense, innovatory
Important, the Roses first proper gig
In the hometown; Ian, sonorous voiced
As Seriemas Amazonian,
A legend in the making mark my words
He’s not aggressive but has balls of steel,
Makes full eye contact iggipoppean
Where we see dizzying vistas opened
By a sincere all–powerful belief
His music in that room will change the world

They are naught by Herculean boy-gods
& by God they’re bloody good
{passing the joint to Clint}
Here you are

Clint Boon
Nice one

I really wish that Factory
& the Roses would make up, Manchester
Has potential ingrain’d to be massive
But all this fractious infighting achieves
Is dissipation of our genius
If the city was united

Eh, Joe
Its half blue mate

You know what I’m saying
It’s a very sectarian city,
Well, village really, we should all get on

Factory are abslutely crackers
An aloof bedlam of rulefree mantras
They should never have let James go, for one
What a band, that Tim Booth is brilliant

Bloody vegans – you can’t play rock ‘n’ roll
Upon Lady Grey, blue cheese & beetroot

The door opens – enter Donna with Mani, Cressa & Johnny Marr

Alright guys


Girls hug

Clint Boon
Alright lads


I hope you don’t mind bringing my new pals

Sure, the more the merrier, whats yer names

I’m Mani


Johnny Marr

I’m Lucy

Hey babe, that is Johnny Marr from the Smits

Fucks sake, shit, so it is, I’m sorry mate

Johnny Marr
Eh – what are you apologizing for

I don’t know

I’m Joe & this is Alisha
Make yourself at home, we’re doing cocktails
Manhattans, you want one

Johnny Marr
Nice one



I’ll make them, babe, give us a hand Donna


Were you all down the Flower Show

We were, proper tops that was

I love em
I’d love to play bass with Reni, he’s mad

You play bass?

Yeah, mate

Have a look at this
I’ve had it for years, but don’t play it much

Fancy a toot on this anybody

Johnny Marr
Don’t mind if I do, Clint, nice one matey

What kind of bass is it

Eh, a blue one
I don’t know

Hah, its in tune

The one thing
I’m actually good at a musically
Pitch perfect, but I cannot play a note

{giving out drinks}
Manhattan for Mani


Hey Johnny
Wanna blast on this

Johnny Marr
What are ya smoking

Its from the Netherlands, its call’d Blowfish

Johnny Marr
Sure, when in Hulme, do as the Hulmeites do
In these effervescent edifices
This spirivalving demi paradise
{gets the joint}
Anything goes & everything is found
A grassy tussock in rough & muddy ground
To grip when life’s path tilts with jilted fate

Woah, this stuff is mental – want some Mani


Johnny Marr sees an acoustic guitar, grabs it & tunes it

Hulme looks like Blade Runner after the Blitz
Civilisation’s untidiest scrawl
To walk around dangerous, but beauty
Blooms out from a thousand booming -windows
Dance track here, dub twenty meters later,
As students, dolies, artists & junkies
Conglomerations, even, of all four
Blended in a bohemian gold rush
Walls torn down, in flats enlarg’d & spacious
Art galleries & rehearsal spaces
After-pub venues focuss’d on jamming
Re-energised the crumbling detritus
Of post-war planning’s transient disaster

The council would rather just nuke the place

Can I have a toot on that mate

Johnny Marr
Of course
Its fucking good that, fancy a blow back
Its down to the roach almost

Why not, yeah

A blowfish blowback, gonna be mental


I got the Blowfish in my mind,
Alpha brainwaves taste like poison, 

There’s a party in her mind 

For the fish & all her kind 

Wanna swim, I’m gonna join ‘em.

Got the mermaid in my soul, 

Sure ain’t seen it’s like since Texas, 

There’s a party in her soul 

Gonna lose my self control, 

Comin in I hope she lets us…

There’s a time bomb tickin in my mind 
Trippin in her soul, 

There is a siren singing her love songs, 
Making me fall,
So what’s the use in going home 

When everything it feels alright good night

Got the demons in my mind, 

Got them living in my bloodstream, 
Dionysys going blind 

All these fishes I will find 

Doing backstrokes thro my dream

Got the Mermaid in my soul, 

Gonna lick her fishy fingers, 

Let the demon take it’s toll, 

Gonna join that funky shoal 

& I’m the king of all the singers. 

There’s a time bomb tickin in my mind Trippin in her soul,
There is a siren singing her love songs, Making me fall,
So what’s the use in going home
When everything it feels alright good night

SCENE 17: A Cave in Morocco

Norman, a middle-aged man is pottering about his cave-home – rugs & brightly coloured woven blankets draped & scattered about – there is a little kitchen & a radio playing music – a flares wearing Bez is asleep under some rugs – he wakes

Wear the fuck am I

A simple question
That has never been easy to answer
Navigators use stars – but in this cave
The night skies rough block’d from mine astrogaze

Who the fuck are you

My name is Norman

Norman, Norm mate, am I dead or a dream
Or what, I thought I was in Morocco

You still are young man, tell me, what’s your name

Eh – Bez, Mark, Mark Berry, they call me Bez
You’re not one of the botty boys, are you
That dug young lads & have their wicked ways

No, no, nothing like that, you had collapsed
In awful heat doubl’d by thy fever
I had you brought here, to my home in the hills
Away from this world’s deaths & destructions
You’ve been feverish for the last three days
Saying all sorts of things in regression
Gibbering in broadest Mancunian
Strange conversations to a phantom stream

Woah – I remember, yes, that was mental
I was wandering thro past lives, not mine,
Communities gather’d upstream, downstream
& me beside the river rolling spliffs

You might have drunk some dirtyish water
When bodies yield to the poison’s effects
Enfollows three days of fever-sweating
When from such precarious positions
Does Human Health return like sorcery

Mate, you got anything I could drink now

Here’s some water –

I’m American, from a little place
Call’d Duval, on the fringe of Seattle
Seattle, Jimi Hendrix & Bruce Lee

That’s right son

So how dy’end up living ‘ere

I was really stoned, just came across it
& knew I’d found what I’d been looking for
Fuck government fashion’d realities
Create your own, I say, so here I am

Its very nice – what did you do back home

I was a psychiatrist, but, I think
A tad too empathic for the project
Needing peace & seclusion, so escap’d
Everybody else’s brainwaves, ya dig?

You got anything to smoke

Help yourself
Do you want a joint, a pipe or a bong

All three if that’s alright, mate, I’m gasping

There’s paraphenelia on the table

{starting to skin up}
Nice one

& yourself, Mark, why Morocco


I’m not exactly sure, it just feels right

I have a life-role indefineable
Beyond my grasp of reckoning just yet
But tantalising starling on the branch
That beckons Berry upwards to the top
Of unlit trees, there sunlight fills the skies
& so I left Manchester in the rain
Upon the legendary Magic Bus
My first time ever Britannia beyond
Buzzing down the B-Roads of Europa
Travailler les vandanges for two months
From Corfu town to Torremelinos
Working piss’d-up discos, under neon
One night, smoking some mad Moroccon weed
The strongest dope I’d ever come aross
I was ston’d instantly, myopic mist
Deliciously descended, as e’erwhile
I felt the urge to go indigenous
& trace the THC back to its course
Where somewhere in the mountains of this land
Valleys full of dope plants blew my mind
Swarm’d with miraculous geomancy
As if them sprung from Na Atibu’s spine
This vision, every level blew my mind,
& that pungent bud’s unquarried manna
Filling up lungsacs my last memory
Drifting twards ecstatic oblivion

I know the place, its call’d Ganja garden
Well, you survived, that’s the main thing young man
So what’s your plan, you can stay a few nights
Get back to full fitness, but then I must
Return to my solitude & studies

I’m going home, mate, Manchester beckons
I’m rested & repurified, & dreamt
Last night, whole cities of people dancing
In weird & wonderful ways, twisting
Writhing, incessantly to a soundtrack
Of loud, crazy, mesmerizing music
Arms waved in rhythmic union wth beats
While eagerly weaving round streets & shops
Its time to do one, but I’ll have this first

{Bez has a long draw on the joint}

Woah, o fer fucks sake, not this shit again

Bez passes out – Norman takes the joint from his hand

You English never handle the good stuff
Anyway, allow your subconscious
To listen to these words, son, if you write
Thy name in sand the tide soon rubs it out
But if you take the effort, son, to carve
Your name in rock, the next day it remains
& so on & forever til the end
To stand above the crowd you must engage
With the spirit of Expressionism
Be bold, distorted, represent with force
All of your emotions, be big, be bold
& don’t forget to bite the dog

Do what
When a dog bites a man, that isn’t news
But when a man bites a dog that is news

What, ah man!

Bez passes out again

This joint’s not even that strong

SCENE 18: Tiffany’s, Leeds

New Order are concluding their set

Bernard Sumner
Thank you Leeds, you have all been amazing
Time to play you our last song…. Blue Monday

New Order conclude their set with Blue Monday

(Mad) : 19-21

SCENE 19: Still Leeds

Backstage at the gig – enter New Order, with the latest member Gillian Gilbert

Stephen Morris
A cracking gig that one, well play’d people

Peter Hook
You too Stephen, a blinder as always

Gillian Gilbert
I fuck’d up the middle eight on Sunrise

Bernard Sumner
Gill, when the story of this gig is told
I’ll dare say nobody would have noticed

Stephen Morris
Who’d a thought Yorkshire could be so much fun

Bernard Sumner
The provinces are allowed to be cool
I mean, look at ancient Rome – in her streets
Were ever any culture stalwarts born?
Martial was born in Calatayud,
Ovid Sulmona, Horace Venosa
& Juvenal, Volscian Aquinum

Peter Hook
Fer fucks sake! wheres the fuckin rider gone

Gillian Gilbert
Somebody must have let the Mondays in

Peter Hook
Fuckin Tony, he’s such a massive cunt
The maudlin Mondays another mistake,
He misses The Smiths, but picks up this mob
Of reprobates, one more first grade fuck-up

Bernard Sumner
Apart from them tanking the fucking beers
I don’t mind ‘em, I kinda quite like ‘em
They pull’d off the support act with aplomb
It was mad, a total mess, but buzzing,
There’s something unpretentious in the air
When stalk they stages in their shuffleshoes

Peter Hook
What the fuck are you on about, Bernard
They’re just a high pitch’d clatter of clicks & chirps
With caterwauling feigning proper song

Stephen Morris
Is that not just the sound of northern angst
Releas’d in rage from substandard housing
Perspiring pent-up frustrations away

Enter Tony Wilson with the Paul & Shaun Ryder holding carrier bags full of alcohol

Peter Hook
What happed to all the fucking booze, Tony

Tony Wilson
Worry not, your rider’s reinstated
Along with French champagne to celebrate
A wonderful performance

Shaun Ryder
Sorry guys
We got carried away after the gig

Peter Hook
You’re just a bunch of fucking hooligans

Bernard Sumner
Steady on Hooky, there’s no worries lads
By the way I enjoy’d your performance
Such a band of authentic anarchists
To be fair, & you right warm’d up the crowd
Our following’s fervently devoted
But never have I seen them take support
As how they’ve done tonight

Gillian Gilbert
Yeah, well done lads

Tony Wilson
{opening champagne}
A great night for Factory all round
Pass the cups about, then, lets do a a toast

Paul Ryder
This was, y’know, just our fifth proper gig
& playing it thro’ New Order’s PA
With proper foldback made the Monday’s feel
We were charlie big potato pop stars

Tony Wilson
Indeed – the establish’d flavour of things
Welcomes the Happy Mondays to the fold
I’m sure you’ll do us proud, & so a toast
To the future of Factory records

Stephen Morris
& all who fuckin sail in her

Tony Wilson
To the future

The future

Shaun Ryder
Nice one Tone

Bernard Sumner
Mister Manchester’s making things happen

Gillian Gilbert
Most high, most mighty, most puissant Ceasar

Peter Hook
Thou quoit of quality, quibblings & quotes
Encovering the dolmen of our days

Tony Wilson
I thank you for that praise, I try my best
& so, the brethren Ryders, Paul & Shaun
As you now parley with our patronage
Shall fame’s fonticulus to torrent flow

Tony Wilson

You are the way forwards, you’re the new thing,
& if fresh fashions are a thing to watch
Your image is you don’t have an image

Paul Ryder
Who we are is unemulatable
But make it look easy, like anyone
Can do what we are doing, but they can’t
Arseing about we’ve turn’d to an artforms
& made some cracking numbers on the way

Tony Wilson
Why don’t we try to record one of them
Or two, of course, there must be a b-side

Shaun Ryder
What do you mean

Tony Wilson
Lets book a studio
Mike Pickering wants to record you boys

Paul Ryder
We’re not ready for owt like that Tony

Shaun Ryder
Shut up Paul, of course we are ready, Tone

Tony Wilson
Great, there’s nothing like praxis to perfect
One’s art, one’s craft, you’ll learn a lot with Mike
& maybe make some money for us all

Paul Ryder
We’re buzzin that you lot believe in us

Bernard Sumner
We like to deal out opportunities
To bands all other labels dare not touch

Peter Hook

I’ve got to give some credit, tho, Paul
First glance you’re a shambling bunch of scallies
Set to kick out shit from the audience
But semi-tones of ambrosian modes
Betray, I’ll admit, thy musicality

Paul Ryder
Mate, I know we’ve got off on the wrong foot
You don’t exactly climb a lingam peak
To sing our praises, perhaps that might change
If I finally deliver thee this

Peter Hook
What’s that – is that my hand writing – it is
But, this is from Spain, years ago

Paul Ryder
I know
Well, I used to work for the Post Office
& was a Joy Division fan, like most
When I saw your name sign’d on this postcard
Instead of leaving with your mam & dad
I dropp’d it in my pocket, anyway

Peter Hook
Fer fucks sake

Bernard Sumner
That’s some funny shit

Paul Ryder
Guess we’re family, now, or summat, right?

Tony Wilson
Indeed we are Paul, Hooky forgive him
Magnaminous are the master-minded

Paul Ryder
I quit my job, no more red-finger’d dawns
Hauling bags of bills upon my back
Round the rainy streets of Little Hulton
I’m on the dole full time until the day
We break the charts like you guys do so well

Shaun Ryder
The dole is like a starving artist’s grant
We can drink, get stoned, listen to music
& more importantly make new music

Tony Wilson
There is nothing at all wrong with the dole
When life’s intuitive object is art
The dole allows you to be somewhat free
& pious to a purpose driven life
So embrace thy style’s elasticity
Bear the burden of consideration
& form those dancey anthems, boys be bold
In ev’ry endeavor, your enemy
Is only time, these days with age shall be
Like Duncan’s murder on a Tudor Stage
Unreal, but more than real, thine avatars
Remember’d on the interwinding gyre
That penetrates existence, & reflects
All that goes on with slivers of silver

Shaun Ryder
You what

Bernard Sumner
Boys, all that Tony’s saying there
Is get yer heads down, work, & then one day
You’ll be as famous as…

Shaun Ryder
New Order

Gillian Gilbert

Paul Ryder
We’d love to be as well known as you lot

Bernard Sumner
Give it time, for ev’ry star a zenith

SCENE 20: Florence

Ian Brown & John Squire are sleeping rough with guitars & sleeping bags on the slopes by the Piazzale Michaelangelo

John Squire
Tis sound being away with you Ian

Ian Brown
You too, mate, for fair forever freindships
Are something special in these fractious times

John Squire
Do you remember the first time we met

Ian Brown
No, not really

John Squire
It was in the sandpit
At nurs’ry, I remember it clearly

Ian Brown
What did I say

John Squire
I don’t remember that
Probably something like, ‘let’s form a group
In twenty years & take over the world

Ian Brown
The world… each region wears its own merits
But some are rocks while others priceless gems
This is a sight to stir the ancient soul
There’s Ponte Vecchio bridging the Arno
The Duomo rising from a rooftop sea
Florence flowing to those lazy foothills
Of this most fabl’d portion Appennine
I’m glad you brought us here, my friend, its, its

John Squire
Spectacular, right, art’s Tuscan cradle
With sunshine fill’d, its Falernian wine
Inspir’d Raphael, Michaelangelo
Vellini, Donatello, Orcagna
Let’s check out the Uffizi tomorrow

Ian Brown
That’s the gallery, right,

John Squire

Ian Brown
No problem
I think its cool we’re gonna spend our dole
Inspecting Italian works of art

John Squire

The life of an English bohemian
Should always spend a space in Italy

Ian Brown
Its true, this week or so we’ve been down here
Has clear’d my mind, a watershed of sorts,
It’s like, a reset, don’t you feel it, John

John Squire
I do, yeah, I mean, its time we grew up
Mastery roots in juvenilia
The songs we sing are good, but not classics

Ian Brown
What about Adored?

John Squire
No, that one’s superb
The rest should on that very level be
Extemporizing legendary songs
The best star’s burn intense to be the best
Let us say if its a little bit shit
Its getting nowhere near the fucking set

Ian Brown
So, what about the band

John Squire
Pete’s good enough
He’s got that poppy, Jean-Jacques Burnel thing

Ian Brown
I just wish he could write his own parts tho,
& he’s City

John Squire
Yeah, but Pete’s one of us
Since we were budding teens under the bridge
But Andy on the other hand

Ian Brown
What mate

John Squire
I mean, he’s great & ev’rything, but, well
I’m getting better all the fucking time
& leaving him behind, I’m thinking now
A lone guitar is all the Roses needs

Ian Brown
Maybe, but I’m not gonna say a word
Loyalty is everything in music
& how much money has his parents spent
On getting us to this point

John Squire
Yeah, I know
I was just saying

Ian Brown
No worries, honesty
Is all we have when all is said & done
To mark us out as subject to virtue

John Squire
We don’t really need to mention Reni

Ian Brown
Hah-hah, sometimes I don’t think he’s human

John Squire
How are them singing lessons coming on

Ian Brown
Oh, Mrs Rhodes, she’s funny, she gets me
Standing at her open window, belting
Acapella versions of old tunes
Like Neil Young’s ‘After the Gold Rush,’ &, ehm
Strawberry Fields Forever – I do that
It’s funny watching all the commuters
Looking for the source

John Squire
Shall we crack the wine
& do a bit of singing, strum some chords

Ian Brown
Don’t normally drink but when its this cheap
It’s rude not to, right… wow that’s delicious

John Squire
You’d pay at least three quid for that back home,
Here its twenty pee – get it down ya neck –
So, shall we have a jam or what, old boy

I have been listening to the sixties
The Beatles, Stones & Byrds, Jimi Hendrix

Ian Brown
Man, I wish I’d heard Jimi earlier
When I was twelve, he’s just astonishing
Its made me realise we are big mouth’d,
Bratty & brash, too much stone, no roses

John Squire
We’ve energy but melodies are lost
In hurricanes of noise, we must progress
I mean a road’s a road, but there were roads
Before the night in thickset country fog
Was Percy Shaw sav’d by reflective light
Beaming a warning from wall-perch’d cat
Upon a band that swerv’d an epic drop
On slamm’d the brakes, from terrifying rush
He felt epiphaneous, invented
Double-studded cat’s eyes to mark the lanes
The same it is for music, those same roads
By legends built; Led Zeppelin, The Doors,
Are sonic highways that might be improved

Ian Brown
I get all that, but how should we translate
This moment we are feeling to those roads

John Squire

Lets play some chords, simply let Italy
Inspire our melodies as if Dante
Went whistling oer these hills, remembering
How felt he after Beatrix did smile
Hmmm – D & G are pretty sunny chords
& nice & gentle vibe

Ian Brown
Yeah that’s good John
{singing melody to Sally Cinnamon}

John Squire

Ian Brown
Yeah that works mate
She tastes of cherry-aid

John Squire
Who tastes of cherry aid?

Ian Brown
Well, a woman

John Squire
Yeah, but who is she?

Ian Brown
Eh, let me think now

Alison, Ally, Sally

John Squire
Yeah, Sally
The ‘s’ is nice innit

Ian Brown
Another one
Let’s have another ‘s’ – Sally ‘s’

Sally Summer, Sally Simmer, Sally..

Cinnamon, Sally Cinnamon

John Squire
Yeah, mate
That name sounds great, rolls off the tongue like silk

Ian Brown

Sally Cinnamon – ba-ba-ba-ba-baa
She tastes of cherry-aid

John Squire
Yeah that’s a start
Have some more red wine, lets write this baby…
Mixing omnipotence & innocence
With lyricism full of doe–eye’d bliss
With melodies as pure as choristers
& sung soft spoken with mystical tones

Ian Brown
Let us be the wonders of a wisdom
We’ll call our own, shrug off non-excellence,
Lets make a wish & watch it rush to life


They play Sally Cinnamon

SCENE 21: A pub in Manchester

Enter Mini & Bez – Alan the bartender is standing behind the bar

Here we go, mate, a nice English boozer

Ah! the Anglo-Saxon sanctuary!
Nice one

How’s your health


Still piling fleshy weight upon mi bones
I’d lost about two stone upon the tour

Two pints of lager mate

Some crisps as well

What flavour

Have you got smoky bacon


Cheese & onion?


Three of them

Ah man, I cannot meet til you meet X

X? What kind of a name is that? Its daft!

It’s the nick-name of Shaun Ryder

That guy

He’s a font of magical, impish charm
A manic force of nature – just like you
Chaos creating with gusto immense
Great company when we’re getting wasted
He is the leader of the biggest bunch
Of nonsensical twats in town, but then
They’re the only bunch of twats that matter

I’ve heard of him, cannot really believe
Our paths have never cross’d in all these years

Fucking off to Africa doesn’t help
While they’ve been making waves with their music

I’m back now, Mini, & raring to go
Happy to make novel acquaintances
If good they’ll be for life’s evolutions

Here you go boys


That’s two pound sixty

So, after X turns up we’ll soon be off
To Amsterdam & celebrate this day
Delightful, their first single, was releas’d
This very morn on Factory Records

Nice one – Amsterdam – I’ve never been there

Very civilized people are the Dutch
I’d live there if it weren’t so fucking dull
But the weed is something else, worth the trip
& makes a petty fortune when I’m home

Enter Shaun & Paul Ryder with goatee beards & spliffs

Shaun Ryder
Alright Mini


Shaun Ryder
Ready for the Dam

Am I – Paul

Paul Ryder
Mini – who’s this

This is Bez

Paul Ryder
Alright mate – ya coming to the Dam with us

Not this time – have a buzz tho, yeah

Shaun Ryder
I’m X

I’m Bez

Shaun Ryder
Fancy a draw on this

Too reyt

Lads, not at the bar, fuck off over there

Paul Ryder
Sorry Alan – a lager & a Smiths
Put that out a minute lads

Roger that

Shaun Ryder
I‘ve heard about you… lived in a cave, right

I did yeah, in Morocco

Shaun Ryder
Proper tops that

Paul Ryder
Original hippy in the house

He’s the genuine article is Bez
You two will get on like a house on fire
As if once parted then made whole again

Shaun Ryder
Rattlin’ on like we should shag each other

Paul Ryder


Paul Ryder
Can you put this record on

What is it

Paul Ryder
Its our first fucking single
On Factory Records, one-twenny-nine
Releas’d today – keep it for the juke box

Its none of that New Wave nonsense is it

Shaun Ryder
Course not mate – support your local artists

Put the record on Alan

Alright, alright
If it scares the punters it comes straight off
Here’s your drinks – that’ll be one seventy

Paul Ryder
We’ll pay at the end, mate

Shaun Ryder
Get that tune on

Fucking hell

Paul Ryder
Just do it will ya… so lads
Lets toast the song Delightful, & success
The Happy Mondays

Shaun Ryder
& our new mate, Bez

They toast

Oi Shaun, come here… fancy a microdot
You’ll find yersel in the Dam in no time!

Shaun Ryder
Well, well, well, a man after my own heart
Yeah, giz one

Shaun Ryder
There’s one for your brother too

Shaun Ryder
Nice one
So… can you play anything


Shaun Ryder
Music, instruments, you know, can you play

Not a note, but I’m right into music
Of ev’ry shade & stripe, I sense great grooves
Within a bar of beats, glyptic ear
The only talent that I’ve won bar one,
Apart from those I’m pretty talentless

Shaun Ryder
What is your other talent

Being Bez

I’m the best in the world at doing that

Shaun Ryder
You’ll do for me, mate, aye, you’ll do for me

Paul Ryder
Thats our song

Shaun Ryder
On the fuckin’ juke box too

Sounds good

Shaun & Paul sing & dance along to Delightful – Mini & Bez join in

(Mad) : Scenes 22-24

SCENE 22: Manchester City Center, outside the central library

It is evening. Reni & Ian Brown are spray painting ‘The Stone Roses’ on walls & shop fronts with a can of red paint. They are sharing a joint.

Tis cool we’re doing this, y’know, daubing
The Stone Roses all over Manchester,
We’ve been ignor’d for long enough

Ian Brown
Damn straight

Its crazy, right, a bit naughty to boot
But appropriate as accords the cause,

Ian Brown

People think we’re hooligans anyway,

Outlaws filling those preconceiv’d notions
Form’d by media-fuell’d stereotypes,
Better to feed one’s notoriety
& ride its karmic tides, than just sit back
& take abuse without its benefits

I could not feign admit I read the bones
A scryer in the times of foretelling
But something tells me something’s for something

Ian Brown
Sometimes irrepressible destiny
Needs a helping hand

Remains undimm’d, even if knows no-one
There’s brilliance in being the best

Ian Brown

After tonight, in Manchester at least,
None able to ignore us any more

Ian Brown
We are poor exiles in our own city
I saw Dante’s house over in Florence
He was an exile too, but crafted then
With miraculous, gifted, genius
Inferno, Purgatory, Paradise,
The lyricism of the wounded heart
Inspired to greatness by his inner star

Besides, its gonna brighten up the place
In runic swirls this lovely scarlet paint
Manchester in the eighties – dull, grey, shit

Ian Brown
The Alarm did the same, mate, wherever
They play’d, they’ve left a calling card behind
As precedent embalms each principle
We’re only banner-holders waving ‘punk
Aint dead,’ y’know, its just transmogrified

We’re hardly doing permanent damage
We’re not the fucking Luftwaffe, its paint,
It washes off, here you are
{passing the joint}

Ian Brown
Cheers my friend
It’s like we’re putting oars in the galley
& pushing out of port, these red scrawls

Are heaving muscles each, set to propel
Us whither, in the sea of Rock & Roll

As comets have a tail, leave trails of dust
Let this graffiti join the Kuiper belt

Ian Brown
& when our magnipotent planetoid
Tears thro the solar system then departs
They’ll always trace our traject to the stars
Projecting there forever shining high

There’s gonna be some fuddy-duddies tho’
Who’ll see this act as attacking the state

Ian Brown
Fuck the state, & fuck its figurehead
Parasites donn’d in trabean togas
Six centuries of piss-taking enough,
Its nineteen-eighty-five, time to get real
They say when ravens London’s tower leave
Falls England, well I’m gonna run down there
With my gun, making sure the birds all flown

Ha-ha, yeah, fuck the Royal family
They’re all just a bunch of castle rustlers

Ian Brown
Buckingham Palace should be turned to flats
For all the folk roov’d by a cardboard box
While every provincial stately home
Not yet museum, sieze one Saturday
Decomposting saturnine patricians
By eliminating elitism
A better, fairer world is guaranteed

Let’s think of generations yet to come
& preachify a message of protest
By music painted, by songs delivered,
To the malcontented, we’ll create
Funky, evangelical canticles
To change the servile mindset of this world


Ian Brown

There’s a copper

Ian Brown

Over there

Ian Brown
Fuck, lets get out of here

Wait, just let me
Finish this

{Ian sprays the e & the s}

Hurry up, Brownie

Ian Brown
Hang on
Reyt, lets go

Ha-ha, proper funny, mate

Exit Reni & Ian Brown

SCENE 23: December 1985 – Boothtown, Shaun Ryders’s flat

Bez & Shaun are watching Watership Down in tears

Shaun Ryder
This film’s so mess’d up, man, messes me up

Its not fuckin’ Disney is it,

Shaun Ryder
I know
I can’t watch any more rabbits dying
Fucking Watership Down, what we doin?

No way should they give it a U rating
Just cos its animated, its murder
For kids

Shaun Ryder
Lets, put some fuckin tunes on then

Where’s yer stereo

Shaun Ryder
There’s a tape deck there
& plenty of choice in the box beside

I like your pad

Shaun Ryder
It’s a fucking shit hole
Politely describ’d as bohemian
A single bedroom Paul nor I e’er clean
& cold baked beans hunger’s only succor

But nicer than mine, trust me, anyway
These souvenirs you brought back from the Dam
Are something else

Shaun Ryder
This Temple Ball’s the best
Tho’ Kashmir Charas comes a close second

I tell you what, tho, seeing a full bar
Of Cluster’d Finger’s a sight for sore eyes
Can I put some in my pipe

Shaun Ryder
Course ya can

I got this from Morocco, so why lace
The taste of nature’s finest with rizlas
{drops pipe down the side of the settee}
Aw fuck –

Shaun Ryder
Whats up

Just dropped me pipe, hang on
{pulls out a bra}
Eh-em, are these yours mate?

Shaun Ryder
I remember them
That was from the Corbiers gig – mad night,
Her strange, synthetic perfumes well uncork’d
But she was such a dickhead, honestly
I mean, the glamorous ones always are
Destitute of thought beyond mascara
Still, she had certain… qualities, lets say,
To make up for those idiot tirades

{pulling out the pipe}
Here we go

Shaun Ryder
I would gave pipe that a wipe
There’ll be more than fucking brazieres down there

Mate, it has to be the Monday’s effect,
Not exactly Playboy Mansion is it
But pullin’ stunners surely does reflect
The sheer funkiness of thy fresh music
Sounds nothing like what I have heard before
Strange but familiar, together
But chaotic, like riding the waltzers
Here, there, spinning round upon sonic blasts,
Dizzying & thrilling ev’ry second
My first gig was the highlight of my life
Just three days gone, its ear-worms burrow’d deep
When witnessing an awestruck gathering
Eyes wide open, ingesting you en masse
Watching the vibrance of the dispossess’d
I saw in them what they all see in you
& that’s themselves, mirroring the soulstars
Within us all, the raw epitome
Of these rough lives, within the Motley Crew
That is your band, every slice reflected
By thy hooligan pie, thy knot of rogues,
Processioning the soundtrack of our lives
{Bez goes on the pipe & coughs}
That’s fucking magic that is

Shaun Ryder
My turn now
Tis all about rock n roll, tho, innit
To stroll along hedonistic paths of
Knowledge & action, just like the Doors done
Is buzzing, man

Tell me about the sound
It is a molten mix of mental-ness

Shaun Ryder
I’ll take us right back to the beginning
We sat around in the forest one day
Knee-deep in discussing our direction
& all was chaos in our rude converse
One wanted to sound like Alex Chilton,
Some Funkadelic, one Tibetan Folk,
Even Heavy Metal got a mention
But in the end we only all agreed
On throwing everything together
& seeing what we’ll make of the melange
Sonic thieves we’ve fused all styles together
Rendering moments sometimes fantastic,
Then wacky, weird, deluded & bewitch’d,
Like when you find a fossil in a rock
The magic thunders in when we just… click,
Then other times when fallens all apart
Right now, tho’, let me blast off on this joy
For, man, this stuff is sacred, alien

Your eclecticism don’t surprise me
I hear the sound of the revolution
Piercing minds with needle-sharp brevity
Dragging back the lips of reality
World-entering, glazed by gunk, blood, mucus,
Sticking out its head of horns & singing
Bitter songs thro you, its poet spokesmen,
While your dysfunctional sense of focus
Seems set this coming era to define

Shaun Ryder
We’re just a band of fuckin’ misfits, pal
& that’s why you’ll be fitting in peachy
Such a shame you can’t play owt tho, nor sing

That might be so, but man I love my tunes

Shaun Ryder
So, I’ve got enough dough here for either
A chippy dinner, a trip ter offy,
Or a bag of china white


Shaun Ryder
Yeah mate

Nah, not for me, thanks, that stuff is lethal
You’re not a skaghead are ya Shaun, fucks sake

Shaun Ryder
Not at all, but time to time I dabble
Its reyt in small doses, helps me come down
From gig-induced adrenaline brainbuzz

Skagheads are just scumbags, the worst bastards
I’ve ever met

Shaun Ryder
What about Baudelaire
& William S Burroughs – great writers,
& Coleridge, without his laudanum
Would there have ever have been a Xanadu

That’s them, not me, I’m never touching it
Again, I might be a garbagehead, yeah
But I aint fuckin’ stupid, that shit’s shit
The bitter clamoring of eager tongues
Oer pounds & pennies & drug paraphenelia
Helterskeltering into viscous hells

As skinny as a last prison rollie
Another life cast off & toss’d to dogs
Shaun – have you ever gone hypodermic
Bearing the scars that never heal’d a wound

Shaun Ryder
Of course not, I just like a little toot


Shaun Ryder
Tis just my shut-off mechanism
For dealing with the world

Or not dealin’
More like, but each to their own, just not me
I will not be partaking in that grime
I too felt that instant ready brek glow
Of sheer, searing invincibility,
That pure feeling of I don’t give a fuck
But stepping from Apollo’s pedestal
I watch’d my friends struggling to reascend
& realised twas serious tackle
In weeks they’d go from smokin’ to diggin’
Their smilin’ stopp’d, they forgot how to dance

Shaun Ryder
Alright, alright, how about the offy
Let’s get the drinks in, what is your tipple

Well, I’ve had a long-lasting love affair,
With apple cider since I turn’d thirteen
Directly from the Garden of Eden
Among the bowl of fruits there’s no contest
With cider you can literally taste
The sweetness of spirituality in it
It’s medically beneficent too!

Shaun Ryder
Cider it is then, I’ll just nip ter shop

But before you go let me rack this out

Shaun Ryder
What’s that

Got it from the man from Peru

Shaun Ryder
Now you’re talking – that’s the proper white stuff

Fat daddy line before you go ter shop
The chemical pursuit of happiness
Needs such collaborations

Shaun Ryder
Chop em out
Before I’m splaffin’ puff’d up superbus
You’re well sound you are Bez

Cheers, so are you

Shaun Ryder
Sometimes I like to be, y’know, dead nice
But sometimes I like being a real cunt
I get a buzz out of both, but a cunt
Is best, I think, take punches time to time
But life is a hell of a lot simpler

So how did you first get into music

Shaun Ryder
Fodder for the soul, innit, mi father
Always play’d in pubs, mi Auntie Mary’s
Full of kids, nine she conjur’d in the end
All with varied vinyl tastes, piels on piles,
The Byrds I heard, & Captain Beefheart too,
Billy Preston, our Maggie loved the Tams,
Bits of Reggae, U-Boy, Bunnie Wailer,
& loads of soul from Robinson’s Records,
I love a bit of Otis Redding me,
Mi mam & dad & had loads of albums too;
Everly Brothers, Jerry Lee Lewis
Fats Domino, the Stones & the Beatles
& so with each circumnavigation
Of the stylus, our spiritus enrich’d

Nice mix of music that, varied is good
Can’t stand the clanniness of Manchester
Are yer Punk or Mod or Rocker – fuck off
I’m all three & hundred more besides
Reyt, hop aboard the Last Train to Clarksville

Shaun Ryder
Ha-ha I fuckin love the Monkees me
Daydream Believer, that’s like my mantra
I robb’d it back in seventy-three, ehm,
That’s right, with Hunky Dory, they were my
First ever records, knew this much at once
I’d be a pop star one day hopefully
But not Roger Daltry with a fish farm
As long as I’ve got somewhere safe to kip,
Pockets stuff’d with drugs & money, nice cars
To drive, I’ll be happy,

& the birds

Shaun Ryder
{snorts a line of cocaine}
Fuck, that’s good that, here ya
{passes the coke snorter}

It’s proper clean
A mate of mine’s connected to Bilbao
An early berth for Columbian ships
Ensures a shorter chain before the snort
{Bez snorts a line}
Fuckin hell !

Shaun Ryder
Bez, you know what I fancy


Shaun Ryder
Another of these trips

Yer joking

Shaun Ryder
Nah, I’m not, giz one

You’re on in three hours

Shaun Ryder
It’ll help to pass the time then

But if you’re having one, I’m having one

Shaun Ryder
Get it down yer neck Bez

{passing a microdot}
Here you go mate

Shaun Ryder
After the gig we can go exploring
I love developing night time vision
With all its trailing weirdness, then BANG! Its Dawn
All soak’d in glorious technicolour

{popping his trip}
Let the cheese pie in the sky shine easy

Shaun Ryder
Lets put on a bit of Funkadelic
Proper grooves

I have pull’d some shapes to them

Shaun Ryder
You’re a great dancer, Bez, reyt fun to watch

Dancing’s a massive part of our culture
Ev’ry room in ev’ry venue’s diff’rent
A stage for fun & frolics on the floor
The northern soulers, metal headbangers,
Punkheads, disco kids, & the ska rudeboys,
I love to be among them all, & groove

Shaun Ryder
You should get on stage with us lot tonight


Shaun Ryder
Get on stage – Funkadelic do it
Yeah, you’d be great man, take the flak off me
I just wanna focus on my singing

Fuck off, I’m getting on no fucking stage

Especially at the Hacienda

Shaun Ryder
Why not

Im’ not gonna be the token
Ignoramus twat, no fucking way mate

Shaun Ryder
You’re a promise waiting to be fulfill’d
If you dance there, you might as well dance there
I’ll give you some maracas or summat

I’m not getting on stage with the Mondays

Shaun Ryder
If you don’t get on stage you’re a soft cunt

Fucks sake, I’m either a twat or a cunt

Shaun Ryder
Either way you’re a fanny, mate

No chance

Shaun Ryder
Look, lets get out to the offy
& get some Dutch coragio down us
Incontrovertible lubrication
For antics of this evening to unfold

In what world would I ever join a band

Shaun Ryder
My world mate, the world I’m on creating
With all my killer brethren, now you are
One of us, you must share the spectacle
& wear the Happy Mondays on your heart

I’m not getting on no fucking stage, X

Shaun Ryder
Mark Berry, Manchester’s biggest pussy

Fuck off, you’re not blagging my head with this

Exit Shaun & Bez

SCENE 24: The Hacienda, Manchester

The Happy Mondays take to the stage /
Clint Boon & The Stone Roses are in the audience

Shaun Ryder
Hello Manchester, the Hacienda
Everybody up for it tonight, yeah
{Shaun starts beckoning to Bez at the corner of the stage, waving a set of maracas}
Bez, Bez, what you doing, this is your time!
What more powerful motive do you need!
Ladies & gentlemen, let me introduce
The latest member of the band, Bez, Bez!
Bez! Come on Bez, what are you playing at!

Paul Ryder
Get on the stage, man, you’re one of us now

Bez leaps on stage & takes the maracas – The band play Twenty Four Hour Party People

(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

(Mad) Scenes 29-31

Scene 29: An Italian Restaurant in Manchester

Gareth Evans is meeting with the Stone Roses & a lawyer brought by Andy Couzens – they are eating spaghetti & drinking red wine

Gareth Evans
Tuck in boys, drink as much wine as you like
Gorge your gullets upon this restaurant’s
Gastronomical specialities
With this day as delicious as thie sauce
For if I can turn Ocean’s Eleven
To the coolest venue in the city
I can make you the best band in the world

I don’t like it

Gareth Evans
You what

This contract

Gareth Evans

This contract, well, if you can call it that
Is fundamentally slave ownership
William Wilberforce would be in fits

Gareth Evans
When did you start playing with the Roses

Andrew’s father’s happen’d to have hired me
To check that everything is above aboard
& I’m certainly glad he has done so
This is not a mangement agreement
At thirty-three-point-three-three-three percent
For 10 years on the band’s gross revenue
Before even expenses taken out
Is plainly parental gaurdianship,
Extortionate, outrageous, disgraceful,
An embarassment to the industry
& even to humanity

Gareth Evans
You what?
It’s fair reward I think for all the time
& cash I’ll be investing in the band
Ten years together seals seriousness
A paltry one or two is mere nonsense
No thing of depth meaning can be aspire
From such a rapid union, ten years
Of magical music making will mean
A lot of money, plenty to go round

Andy Couzens
Of which you’ll be getting a third, Ian
Reni, Pete, John

Pete Garner
Look, Andy, we don’t mind
It’s ridiculous, but we get to jam
Every day thro top drawer speakers

Ian Brown
At this strike of time we have made nothing
& a third of nothing is still nothing

Gareth Evans
You’ll be making money very soon boys

I’m happy with the tickets & free drinks
Benefits to outweigh any pitfalls
Of signing with Gareth

Andy Couzens
You’re kidding me
John, mate, what do you think

John Squire
I’m cool with it

Andy Couzens
Lads, come on, think, you’re really having this
{The rest of the Roses shrug their shoulders}
For fucks sake, I cannot sign this, this, plague,
It’ll eat away & destroy us all
I mean, who the fuck is Gareth Evans
Whose firebombs at the end of his tongue
Divides our happy band, a basilisk
With poisonous, obstacalizing breath
His bullshit stinks like a treacherous quag
Our songs are amazing, how can we stoop
Hook, line & sinker to this parasite
& with an inky stroke hand them over
I refuse his pen, I’m leaving the band

Exit Andy Couzens

Lads, think this thro like a careful mother
I suggest that none of you sign this turgid
Toilet paper piece, wipe your ass on it
Sure, but offering consolidation
Signatory is tantamount to death
Well, your musical suicide lets say

Gareth Evans
Oi, is there any chance you can fuck off

Don’t say nobody warn’d you

Ian Brown
Jog on mate

John Squire
Whatever’s in that contract, I respect
Your transparency, no hidden clauses
I’ll sign

Me too – pass us a pen Gareth

Gareth Evans
Boys, this is the best thing you’ll ever do
I promise you one thing – you’ll be massive

Ian Brown
That’s what we want to hear, I’ll sign it too

Pete Garner
& me

Gareth Evans
Boys, my boys, more wine, no, champagne
Its time to celebrate – oi, per favore
A bottle of expensive champagne please
& five flutes

Ian Brown
Andy won’t be coming back
But in a way it simpler makes all things
Four is the magic number for a band
The Beatles & the Doors are testament,
Their music is supreme, the Rolling Stones
Could easily have overdubb’d guitars
Besides, with four, we’d only need one car

The songs are gonna be able to breathe
Give everyone a turn, a chance, to shine
As soaring soundscapes open up untied
From rock & roll convention

Pete Garner
I agree
As when the Margrave marched with Marlborough
& Eugene to their Danube destiny
& with his fifteen thousand men was sent
Away from Blenheim, on to Ingolstadt
Weakening the host, but interferance
In the battleplan now firmly removed
Thus executed into perfection
Guys, when ditching Andy Couzens we too
Shed heavy weights that draggeth to the goal
Better to climb a mountain like a goat
Or swim a river upstream, salmon strong

John Squire
Tis the right thing for me, as sure as breath
Creativity should be a pleasure
But writing with Andrew became a chore
Him chugging chords along to lovely lines
He’s old style rocker, while I’m

Gareth Evans
Pure genius

Here you are

Gareth Evans

Nice one mate

Gareth Evans
Lets pop this baby open…
Here you are boys, time to toast the future
I’ve just found what the world is waiting for
To you, the Stone Roses, & your success
{They toast}
So moving on, leaving residuum
Beginneth by releasing a record
As soon as possible, something to mark
A new beginning, change of personelle
& fresh realisation of talents,
All this beguiling swagger, confidence,
All well & good, we know you will be huge
But something has to happen on the way
From steps come strides, from strides come gargant leaps
What have you got to give the world today?

John Squire
We have a song call’d Sally Cinnamon
A radical departure from our sound
Its softer than the rest, but then a pearl
Appears in the middle eight, firm, yet true,

Gareth Evans
Sounds perfect – lets record it very soon
There’s a flicker of light in the shadows
I will spend hours on end phoning the press
Music magazines, record labels, send
Hundreds, no thousands of tapes to the world
Push’d into the national consciousness
I’ll tap you into the great tradtion
To which you are heirs natural, as when
Sang the Syrian cabaret hostess
Her hair bound back, held by grecian headband,
Thighs quivering to rhythmic castanets
Danc’d intoxicated in dark taverns,
Or when the citharoedi pluck’d their lutes
With ivory plectrums in the forums
As the nightingale sings with flawless voice
Some in this wide creation forechosen,
To garnish the strokes of the galley slaves
To fill the headphones in the factories
To fuel the jukebox grooving on tables
& you shall prove, my boys, the greatest yet
Once more, lets drain our glasses, lets rejoice
& toast the Roses

Ian Brown

Gareth Evans
The Stone Roses

They toast

SCENE 30: The Boardwalk, Manchester

The Happy Mondays are finishing their set

Shaun Ryder
Are you ready – lets go – Up, up, away
It was Mad Cyril lads, lets have a look

The Happy Mondays play Mad Cyril

Shaun Ryder
Thank you very much – we are the Mondays
Happy Mondays, yeah, & you’ve been, well, you

Shaun Ryder gets off the stage – Nathan McGough approaches Shaun with Tim Booth

Nathan McGough
Shaun, Shaun, come here, that was brilliant

Shaun Ryder
Was it

Nathan McGough
It was yeah, look, there’s somebody
I’d like you to meet, this is Tim, Tim Booth

Shaun Ryder

Tim Booth
That was bloody magnificent

Shaun Ryder
Was it – but we’ve been on for hours ha’nt we

Nathan McGough
Nah mate, you’ve just been on twenty minutes

Shaun Ryder
Fuck off

Nathan McGough
No swear down, just twenty minutes

Tim Booth
If you can do more than twenty minutes
You can support my band on our next tour

Shaun Ryder
Whats your band

Tim Booth

Shaun Ryder
Ah, James, you guys are good
Your English country garden poet-rock
Is proper good man, yeah, yeah, I like it

Nathan McGough
It is a great opportunity, Shaun

Shaun Ryder
Right, right, yeah, well let me speak to the lads
But I’m sure they’ll be proper up for it
But for now lets get the fuckin’ beers in
Lads, to whet our mutual flatteries

Shaun puts his arms around Nathan McGough & Tim Booth – exeunt

SCENE 31: Wolverhampton, the office of Revolver FM

A leopard-skin pants-wearing, long hair’d Paul Birch is working in his office with his assistant, Mandy – There is a knock on the door – Mandy opens it


Gareth Evans
Hello there – thanks for having us
Its quite a drive from Manchester you know
Lots of bloody traffic, but Im here now

Here comes another full of joy & mirth!
Who are you again

Gareth Evans
I’m Gareth Evans

Were we expecting you

Paul Birch
Ah, Gareth mate
Welcome – eh, I will deal with this Mandy
Maybe go grab us a couple of brews
Tea or coffee gareth

Gareth Evans
A milky tea
No sugar please

Paul Birch
I’ll have my usual

Exit Mandy

Paul Birch
So the Stone Roses

Gareth Evans
Man, they are so good
They’re selling out the International
In Manchester – my club with every gig
Their following grows bigger, & their songs
Are deft, orpehean miracles of sound

Paul Birch
You know we’re a heavy metal label

Gareth Evans
Course, but, you know, guitars are guitars
& these boys wield them like kaleshnikovs

Paul Birch
Well, I’ve had a listen, they’ve got something
I don’t know what exactly, but it shows
More importantly my A&R man
In Manchester, Dave Roberts, writes for Sounds

Gareth Evans
I know him – he’s always calling me up
Pestering for tickets, he gets them tho

Paul Birch
Well, thanks to your kind generosity
I spoke to David just the other day
Whose unbias’d opinion, Gareth,
Declares your band are gods immaculate
I’ll be history maker, he tells me,
If FM Revolver releas’d the first
Single by the Roses, & so Gareth
I’d like to pay for some studio time
& get a single out there, distribute
As widely as we can

Gareth Evans
That’s brilliant
You won’t regret this

Enter Mandy

Coffees gentlemen

Paul Birch
Well, Mandy, looks like we have a new band
On the books


Gareth Evans
Yes, the Stone Roses
My band, they are going to be massive

We hear that every day, Mister Evans
Gareth Evans
You don’t sign the Roses every day tho’
I am no helmsman of a ruin’d boat
But stand a Viking chieftan at the bow
Of some sleek dragon galley roaring in
To Lindisfarne in the days of Cuthbert

Paul Birch
Do you know which song you want to release

Gareth Evans
The band want to do Sally Cinnamon
The third track on the demo I sent you

Paul Birch
I’ll have to put it on again, its here
{starts looking for the demo tape among many}
We are simply inundated
By wannabe rockers, most of whom shit

{holding the Stone Roses demo}
Is this it

Paul Birch
That’s the one, put it on please

Gareth Evans
Each song should have tape-counter number

Which track is it

Gareth Evans
Number three, its so good
As Mefistofele match’d Goethe’s Faust
Transcending Gounod’s popular piece
Sally Cinnamon is a sybarite
Luxuriant grown from its sixties roots

They listen to Sally Cinnamon

Paul Birch
That was great

Really good

Paul Birch
Eight track yeah

Gareth Evans

Paul Birch

To tell you the truth that sounded smashing
Instead of splashing out hundreds of pounds
Thousands even, I know an engineer
In Macclesfield with a cool studio
Call’d the cottage, magician at the desk
He’ll wave a wand of wonder oer the works
AN overdub or two, redo vocals
Shall turn that demo to the real thing

Gareth Evans
I’m sure the lads will agree to that yeah,
The sooner the single’s out the better

Paul Birch
Welcome aboard the good ship Revolver
{they shake hands}

Gareth Evans
The lads are going to be buzzing, Paul
Thanks once again

Paul Birch
No sweat

Gareth Evans
This song is gonna send them to the stars