Plato and Sydny flew into a beautiful sunset and were closely followed by the centaurs and the swarm of bats. As Sydny and Plato flew Bobby knew one thing for sure, never underestimate the hallucinatory quality of psychoactive drugs. Especially if they are mixed with an indigo coloured pill!
Bang!
“Tribal Drift” finished their first number and he was back in Brighton at the Festival again.
The Audience went mental! The band immediately went into another number. The lead singer had a didgeridoo that broke a few musical boundaries. He had cut a didgeridoo in half and rebuilt it so that one half slid inside the other. It therefore acted like a trombone in that he could alter the pitch with hand movements as well as with his mouth. He had it resting on a plastic cup that was strapped to the microphone he was using and the dips and rises in tone sent shivers up and down Bobby’s back.
Bobby had read on the back of an Aboriginal tape of didge. playing that, according to some Aboriginal mythology, an Aborigine once found a long, tubular piece of wood. It promised to be so useful that the tribesmember picked it up and analysed it. On looking inside it was found to house a nest of termites. Instead of killing the termites to obtain the tube the Aborigine blew through it so that they would be removed without harm. A beautiful sound came out of the other end. It was a reward by the Gods for the Aborigine’s compassion. It seemed poetic to Bobby that in the last few years an affection for this ancient instrument had swept the European festival circuit and it had been taken to the bosom of those in the vanguard of the environmental struggle in this part of the world.
VVVRRRRRRRRUUMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRH!
The singer’s slide-didge. altered pitch as a prelude to the beginning of the next phase of “Tribal Drift’s” full sound. BANGTHUDTHUDBANGTHUDTHUDBANGTHUDTHUDBANG!
The next wave of heavyheavy Dub rocked the earth beneath the feet of an utterly hypnotised audience. Shiva and Bobby started swaying again. Buffalo looked seriously in thought and stared at Suzie.
The lead vocalist of “Tribal Drift” had long dread-locks. He was Australian and had an orange T-shirt and baggy, beige Arabesque trousers. The keyboardist had short, blonde hair and a black T-shirt. His role in the band, as far as Bobby could see, was to program bass rhythms and alter their pitch and pacing according to changes between songs. He was also responsible for some very very rootsy Ska “hammond” organ. On top of these mighty jobs he also programmed the beat. Much of the beat and bass were on pre-set patterns but every now and then Bobby noticed him turning a dial or holding down keys after a bit of button pushing. These actions in turn led to instant rhythm changes and key modulations. On top of this he displayed an array of orchestral noises that mixed strings with tablas, horns with guitar and mixtures of pipes, piano and percussion. On top of this his harmony vocals, complementing the lead singer’s, were as focused as a heat-seeking missile. The percussionist was perhaps the main rebel rouser in this outfit. She was a tantric priestess. Not only were her toms, cymbals and kick-drum a prominent layer of beat and wave over the mantras and harmonies of the other two but her tight sense of rhythm provided a solid structure which seemed to support the whole ensemble. It even seemed, at times, that the programmed beats were following her lead. Bobby shook his head. It must be the keyboardist altering drum patterns to meld with her percussion. He looked at the keyboardist and he was quite patently concentrating on some “hammond” licks at the time. Maybe this Queeeen of Khaos had some subconscious, extra-dimensional hold over machinery. Bobby chuckled to himself. Was he fucked!
The percussionist was dressed in a black crop-top and black tights with a pair of short denim shorts over them. Her hair was a grade two, black crop. When she wasn’t pounding out sublime beats she gyrated and spun around the stage like a Whirling Dervish. She made wide circles with her right arm above her head as she leapt about. One moment she would be holding a maraca and the next she would be rotating her arm as if to lasso the audience and pull them towards her in order to join them in her thirst for dynamic action. To say that some of her movements didn’t conjure up the odd image of flagellation would, of course, be a fib. Since most of the band’s lyrics were directed at members of the Establishment her movements courted such themes beautifully. She was an experienced raver and understood the need for extrovert dance as a means of inspiring others towards greater freedom of movement.
The singer was a New Age mob orator and the percussionist was a one-woman riot of movement. They were erotic, they were rebellious, they were rampant and they were RIGHT ON!
The band finished another number. As they started the next over shouts of glee from the appreciative crowd Bobby noticed the fourth and final member of this electric quartet. She was a vibrant dancer dressed in orange, Arabesque trousers, a tight fitting, pink, satin top and a psychedelic waist-band of silk in oranges, dark blues, reds and yellows. Her hair was a long, blonde rope of platted activity. Where the percussionist was a fury of excited movement the dancer swayed her body in slow ripples of snake-like agility.
Behind this daughter of delirium an array of colourful backdrops hung in tribal elegance. The central one had a black and white mandala of a medieval sun on it. Apart from its corrugated rays stretching in all directions its face had androgynous features painted on it which gave it an ethereal personality. Around this Bobby could make out the words “Festival of” he couldn’t quite read the next and last word because of the movement and machinery on stage. He contented himself with the replacement words that sprung into his head as he continued dancing.
“Festival of Freeeeks, Families, Fun and Freeeeedom!”
The music gathered pace and the percussionist and dancer gracefully sped up their navigation of the stage. The dancer gesticulated and turned and the percussionist spun and twisted. The keyboards gathered pace, the didge. thundered its approval and the percussionist started beating on her skins with an accelerating sense of abandonment.
Another song finished and this time it seemed to be more of a short, sharp shock than the previous ones as far as Bobby was concerned. A second or so later there was a feeling that he was being observed. He spun around and a cacophony of noise heralded the entrance of the ever groooovy Sean Sharp and Sam Swift. They were brother and sister aged nine and six respectively. Sean and Sam descended on Bobby like a maelstrom of madness. They were quickly followed by The First Class Ticket (their father) and his groooooooovy partner Isis.
The F.C.T. split parental responsibilities with his ex-partner Sharon. He had taken his kids to the festival because he felt Sharon’s life-style was a little too straight for their kids to be flooded with it all the time. He saw their staying with him as their chance of doing more in life than working in a factory or supermarket.
Sharon wasn’t a bad person but she did have an unhealthy scepticism of Hippie culture.
“The Forest of Id?” Bobby asked F.C.T. and Isis.
They both nodded.
“You haven’t mentioned it to anyone I gather.”
“Not a soul.” said Isis.
“We’ve both been blipping in and out of this festival for ages.” said Shiva.
“As have we.” said Isis.
“You both O.K.?” asked Bobby.
“Yeah.” they both replied.
“I reckon we’ll be through The Forest of Id soon.” said Shiva.
“Maybe we’ll live a whole life-time before we return to Eden.” said the F.T.C.
“Unlikely. That druid in Eden said that we’d experience flash-forwards and flashbacks. I don’t think his definition of “flashes” runs to more than a few hours here and a few minutes there.” said Shiva.
The F.C.T. had been an acquaintance of Bobby’s for nearly four years by the time of this festival. They had met at a rave in a disused pub on the seafront in Brighton. Bobby and Kazz Khaos were meeting some of her D.J. mates so Bobby could give them all LSD he’d brought from London. Among their number was the flamboyant, camp, street-wise, super-cooool, turned on, tripped out, tuned in, tried and tested, deranged, dreaded, bastion of Brighton’s SOLID CORE of alternative life-stylists The First Class Ticket. He spent half his social life in Brighton and half of it in London. It all depended on what his weekly parental responsibilities were.
One of the DJ’s getting the acid off Bobby on the night in question was Lonnie D. He was an introvert from Belfast who had introduced Kazz and Bobby to a whole new strata of progressive Dance Music. He’d been at the dance bar in Brixton when Bobby had first discovered the disappearance of Swingate Lane. He and the others who had been with Bobby and the F.C.T. at the bar (and at the party in the disused dairy afterwards) had stayed there when Bobby and the F.C.T. had gone back to Woolwich to look for Kazz.
At the time when Bobby first met The F.C.T. he was visiting Kazz regularly in a house she shared with Lonnie D. in Brighton itself. Lonnie and Kazz’s friendship was strengthened by the fact that the third member of this short-term, terraced test of temperament was Kazz’s landlord’s daughter, Wendy. Her dad was the fun-hating owner of a couple of butcher shops who had had the bright idea that if he moved in a couple of Brighton’s large selection of Housing Benefit recipients his daughter’s rent would be paid and she could get in some basic training as a rent collector.
She was a mentally hideous apologist for the profiteering greed of capitalism.
“It’s fackin’ normal innit? It’s fackin’ human nature innit?” she would say as she sucked noisily on a greasy pork-chop. She would then remind “her” two live-in tenants that her family were hardened criminals and able to “fack” anyone they chose. This, she surmised, was why her family were “so good at makin’ money.”
“If only other people weren’t so pafetic an’ weak,” she’d say, “they could all make a crust. I can’t stand people whining about our family’s behaviour and then not having the guts to fack ‘em. They’d deserve a good fackin’ if they give anyone half a fackin’ chance!”
This was too good an invitation for Kazz and Lonnie to pass off. Seeing as they were both vegetarians plus the fact that Wendy’s ignorance about, and criticisms of, the situation in Northern Ireland were getting Lonnie down they decided to comply with those very same rules that Wendy Calfstrangler and the renowned chain of "Calfstrangler and Son" butchers abided by. Kazz and Lonnie should conform to the ethics of their landlady’s family and FACK ‘EM!
One afternoon Wendy was drying her “Care Bear” style hair that sat precariously atop her bulbous head when she had another burst of insight. She sat - all pinks and parfum de poison.
“Ere you coupla’ dole scroungin’ veggies you know you owe my old man six hundred and forty quid for this month’s rent?”
“The Housing Benefit office said they were getting it sorted as fast as they could,” replied Kazz.
“Well that’s as maybe but it’s your responsibility to cough up.”
“Anyway,” Lonnie cut in, “it’s not due for another three weeks.”
Wendy sat on her very own work-shy backside and leered long and hard at Lonnie.
“What’s he saying?” Wendy finally said, turning to Kazz, with this question as part of her continuing attempts to point out that, in her mind, Lonnie’s accent could hardly be considered as the Queen’s English.
“The rent’s not due yet,” added Kazz.
“Well” continued Wendy “I’ve an idea. You tell the Dole your rent has gone up to a hundred pounds a week. I’ll give you a letter to confirm it and I can keep the extra twenty quid a week on top of what dad gives me. You don’t lose out and I show a bit of business initiative.”
“There’s only one problem Wendy,” replied Lonnie.
“What’s he saying?” Wendy thought she was being clever.
“It won’t work Wendy,” said Kazz patiently.
“Why?” Wendy replied as she dropped a fist-full of pork scratchings into her wide beckoning throat.
“Your old man needs to sign it. He’s the official landlord,” said Kazz.
“Well I’ll forge it and tell the Dole he gave it to you stupid!”
“What if your old man finds out?” asked Lonnie.
“What’s he saying?” Wendy’s brain dulled as she resorted to repetition. Her eyes glazed over and her expression displayed unbending ignorance.
“What if your old man finds out?” asked Kazz resisting the urge to point out what an ignorant piece of shit her “landlady” was.
“Well then you’ll be facked won’t you! If you don’t go along with this I’ll tell him you’re holding out on the rent and have you both booted out all right?”
Lonnie continued, countering her intransigent reply with all the calm and gentleness his upbringing had taught him.
“Wendy this does not seem all that fair.”
“Could you speak a little slower I’m afraid I don’t come from Ireland.”
“Look, Wendy, we don’t think you’re being very fair,” Kazz was having her patience tested to the full.
“Tough! I also want a hundred quid, in advance, as a down payment on the rent rise. I want it by the end of next week!”
“Wendy the Dole will never do it,” entreated Kazz.
“Then you’ll have to borrow it won’t you!”
She continued preening her basin-style hair-do and picked up the phone, punched in a number with her greasy fingers, then started chatting with one of her mates about who they were going to pull at the “Hand-Bag House” evening at “The Pink Coconut”. After some insensitive discourse concerning the amount of dosh she and her friend had spent the night before Wendy slammed the phone down.
“So” continued Kazz “If we don’t get you your money we’re facked. If we do get you your money and your old man finds out we’re facked. If we get you your money and the Dole finds out we’re facked. At the very least we get the money sorted and then have it hanging over our heads so you get a bit extra with no risk to yourself.”
“That’s right,” replied Wendy, “I’m a business woman keeping up with the times and maybe you’ll both learn something about the nature of money as your reward.”
“You can say that again” said Lonnie under his breath.
“What did he say?” Wendy looked over at Kazz.
“Nothing.” Kazz was all out of tippy-toeing around Wendy’s racist attitude.
Wendy got up and left the room. The fact that Wendy had only just crawled out of her Teens and was a bit younger and a whole lot less experienced about the world than Kazz and Lonnie made all this just that little bit more irksome. Still their open invitation to do some facking of their own was still there. After all it looked like they’d lose their tenancy at some point and although they hadn’t moved in all that long ago who the fuck wanted to live in these conditions. When they moved in they thought Wendy was just another tenant and then BANG she turns out to be “Al Capone’s daughter”! What a fucking life!
The Housing Benefit Department in Brighton owed two month’s rent on top of the month Wendy had referred to. This massive sum of one thousand two hundred and eighty pounds plus the six hundred and forty quid for the third month was, twenty four hours later, wiped from the Housing benefit “Live Cases” files owing to a letter they received, by hand, informing them that Kazz and Lonnie never took up residency and that the family of “Calfstrangler and Son” had attempted to defraud the Housing Benefit Department by not telling them that they had vacated. When the Benefit Officer asked why the tenants had not informed them of their end of tenancy Kazz and Lonnie looked shocked.
“I must admit I’m a bit confused Mr Longbottom,” said Lonnie reading Mr Longbottom’s badge of identification. “I distinctly remember handing our notices of eviction into you personally as well as asking you for advice on what we could do to prevent it. You said there was very little we could do so we lived on the streets for a couple of weeks and now we’ve found that our ex-landlord is still claiming on our behalf. Now we know you have not as yet paid him anything so maybe we should all call it a draw.”
Lonnie was sounding almost beyond reasonable at this point. Mr. Longbottom, obviously worried that he had failed to log something in the files all those weeks ago, thanked them for their help and said that they may be contacted if any fraud was in fact proven.
“I don’t think that would be very wise in terms of our safety Mr Longbottom,” Kazz said, “I’m sure you are aware of Mr. Calfstrangler’s reputation. After all he has got several properties whose tenants claim at this very office.”
“Yes we would prefer it if you were to keep our whereabouts as secret as possible,” added Lonnie.
“I understand,” said Mr. Longbottom.
Kazz rose and shook his hand. Lonnie and her left with wide grins on their faces.
They found other accommodation through their mates and Bobby Rewind turned up with his transit van and helped them move while Wendy was visiting one of her dad’s butcher’s shops. When she got back there was a letter on the living-room floor.
“Dear Wendy
There’s a letter on its way to your old man explaining
your attempts to rip him off.
Fack your money,
fack your family and fack you!”
Of course there was no such letter on its way to her old man. They nicked a bedside lamp, a couple of videos and a painting of Brighton Pavilion. This, they thought, was adequate compensation for the shit they’d had to put up with. Bobby wanted them to clean the bastard out but Lonnie dissuaded him.
By way of an epilogue to this tale of rebellion against Neo-Rackmaneering landlords it’s sufficient to say that when Wendy got home and read Kazz and Bobby’s letter all she could say was “FACKFACKFACKFACKFACKFACKFACKFACK!” whilst banging her bulbous head against the nearest pink and silver lined living room wall.