Heartbreaker — Chapter Fifty-Five: 1979
‘Fucking wankers.’ Tom spat the words out. He was furious. Paul had rarely seen him so wound up. ‘Look at this shit, for God’s sake.’ He was waving a copy of Sounds magazine as he paced his hotel room like a tiger in a too-small cage.
‘What is it, mate?’
‘Fucking poll. Fucking garbage.’ Tom thrust the magazine angrily at Paul. ‘It’s supposed to be a proper music paper, not a teenybopper rag, fucking pieces of shit.’
Paul flicked through, searching for the offending article. It turned out to be a bog standard readers’ poll: best band, singer, guitarist, and so on. Out of habit, he looked straight at the ‘best drummer’ category and saw that he was in the top five, although behind a couple of people he would have expected to come out ahead of. Still, ever since John Bonham got beaten into second place by Karen Carpenter, albeit in a poll in Playboy, he had learned to take these things with a very large pinch of salt. He scanned on to find what it was that had set Tom off. Andy was in there, so was Johnny, the band got a mention, although there was no real category that Colin fitted easily into and so his name was missing. Here we are, thought Paul, ‘best bass guitarist’. He scanned the names; the usual suspects were there. He clocked John Paul Jones, Lemmy, Andy Fraser … and there was Tom, too, propping them up in tenth position just behind Phil Lesh, but still in there.
‘What’s the matter, mate? You made the top ten.’
Tom was apoplectic. ‘Look at number fucking four.’ He practically choked on the words.
‘Number four?’ Paul was scanning.
‘Number four.’
‘Sid Vicious. Ah.’
‘Exactly. I was beaten by a guy who couldn’t play to save his bastard life. He barely knows which way up to hold the fucking thing.’
‘Be fair, the Pistols are a popular band.’ Which was exactly the wrong thing for Paul to say. He could have bitten his tongue off, but it was too late.
In common with many rock bands at the time, Heartbreaker had received a lot of bad press because of their style of playing. Punk and New Wave heralded short, punchy songs, not long solos and medleys. It hadn’t stopped new rock bands emerging, although the guitar style was often frenetic, speed being of the essence. It wasn’t that rock had ever gone away or even appreciably waned in popularity; more that the music press had apparently decided that their readers were no longer allowed to like established bands. Of course, the readers’ polls generally showed the truth of the matter. And some of the new stuff was great, Paul liked The Clash and Ramones; hell, he even liked the Sex Pistols. Tom, however, had taken the whole dinosaur/rock tsar thing very badly. He still saw Heartbreaker as his and Johnny’s band and he took any criticism personally.
‘Tom, cool it, man, it’s just a poll.’
Tom was raging, looking for something on which to vent his anger. He eyed Paul up, decided the drummer was too big to take on. Before Paul could stop him, he had picked up a bedside cabinet, heaved it above his head and smashed it to the floor.
‘Jesus, Tom.’ Paul darted out of the way. With a roar, Tom seized a standard lamp and started wielding it like a club. Paul skipped backwards into the bathroom and took cover. From his place of safety, he could hear Tom roaring and grunting with effort as furniture splintered and glass shattered. When the rage and fury ended, he peered out.
The room was destroyed. There was splintered wood and broken glass everywhere, and in the middle of it all stood Tom, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, clutching what was left of the standard lamp like a conqueror with a club. He was grinning from ear to ear, temper gone. ‘That was fucking great,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve got to try it, Paul, it’s a blast.’
Johnny came into the room, alerted by the noise, and his eyes widened when he saw the devastation. ‘What the hell …?’
Tom grinned. ‘I was angry. I feel great now.’
‘Look at the place, you maniac. How’re we gonna talk our way out of this?’ Johnny was incredulous.
Tom shrugged. ‘We’ll just pay for it. Whatever it costs, it’ll be worth it.’
Colin and Andy arrived and looked aghast at the devastation. Then Colin started to laugh. Soon they were all laughing, holding their sides, tears rolling down their cheeks. ‘You mad bastard,’ gasped Colin. Then he noticed a lamp that had rolled to the floor but not broken. ‘Here, you’ve missed something.’ Colin grabbed the lamp and smashed it off the floor, the broken wardrobe and the headboard, then pitched it across the room, missing Tom by inches.
‘What is it, mate?’
‘Fucking poll. Fucking garbage.’ Tom thrust the magazine angrily at Paul. ‘It’s supposed to be a proper music paper, not a teenybopper rag, fucking pieces of shit.’
Paul flicked through, searching for the offending article. It turned out to be a bog standard readers’ poll: best band, singer, guitarist, and so on. Out of habit, he looked straight at the ‘best drummer’ category and saw that he was in the top five, although behind a couple of people he would have expected to come out ahead of. Still, ever since John Bonham got beaten into second place by Karen Carpenter, albeit in a poll in Playboy, he had learned to take these things with a very large pinch of salt. He scanned on to find what it was that had set Tom off. Andy was in there, so was Johnny, the band got a mention, although there was no real category that Colin fitted easily into and so his name was missing. Here we are, thought Paul, ‘best bass guitarist’. He scanned the names; the usual suspects were there. He clocked John Paul Jones, Lemmy, Andy Fraser … and there was Tom, too, propping them up in tenth position just behind Phil Lesh, but still in there.
‘What’s the matter, mate? You made the top ten.’
Tom was apoplectic. ‘Look at number fucking four.’ He practically choked on the words.
‘Number four?’ Paul was scanning.
‘Number four.’
‘Sid Vicious. Ah.’
‘Exactly. I was beaten by a guy who couldn’t play to save his bastard life. He barely knows which way up to hold the fucking thing.’
‘Be fair, the Pistols are a popular band.’ Which was exactly the wrong thing for Paul to say. He could have bitten his tongue off, but it was too late.
In common with many rock bands at the time, Heartbreaker had received a lot of bad press because of their style of playing. Punk and New Wave heralded short, punchy songs, not long solos and medleys. It hadn’t stopped new rock bands emerging, although the guitar style was often frenetic, speed being of the essence. It wasn’t that rock had ever gone away or even appreciably waned in popularity; more that the music press had apparently decided that their readers were no longer allowed to like established bands. Of course, the readers’ polls generally showed the truth of the matter. And some of the new stuff was great, Paul liked The Clash and Ramones; hell, he even liked the Sex Pistols. Tom, however, had taken the whole dinosaur/rock tsar thing very badly. He still saw Heartbreaker as his and Johnny’s band and he took any criticism personally.
‘Tom, cool it, man, it’s just a poll.’
Tom was raging, looking for something on which to vent his anger. He eyed Paul up, decided the drummer was too big to take on. Before Paul could stop him, he had picked up a bedside cabinet, heaved it above his head and smashed it to the floor.
‘Jesus, Tom.’ Paul darted out of the way. With a roar, Tom seized a standard lamp and started wielding it like a club. Paul skipped backwards into the bathroom and took cover. From his place of safety, he could hear Tom roaring and grunting with effort as furniture splintered and glass shattered. When the rage and fury ended, he peered out.
The room was destroyed. There was splintered wood and broken glass everywhere, and in the middle of it all stood Tom, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, clutching what was left of the standard lamp like a conqueror with a club. He was grinning from ear to ear, temper gone. ‘That was fucking great,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve got to try it, Paul, it’s a blast.’
Johnny came into the room, alerted by the noise, and his eyes widened when he saw the devastation. ‘What the hell …?’
Tom grinned. ‘I was angry. I feel great now.’
‘Look at the place, you maniac. How’re we gonna talk our way out of this?’ Johnny was incredulous.
Tom shrugged. ‘We’ll just pay for it. Whatever it costs, it’ll be worth it.’
Colin and Andy arrived and looked aghast at the devastation. Then Colin started to laugh. Soon they were all laughing, holding their sides, tears rolling down their cheeks. ‘You mad bastard,’ gasped Colin. Then he noticed a lamp that had rolled to the floor but not broken. ‘Here, you’ve missed something.’ Colin grabbed the lamp and smashed it off the floor, the broken wardrobe and the headboard, then pitched it across the room, missing Tom by inches.
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