Noisemaker

By Andy Tolson

Inspired by the sonic anarchy of The Clash and The Sex Pistols, teenager Billy Stamp flees a chaotic family life in Halifax to drum his way to superstardom in punk-era London. But Billy is woefully unprepared for a city populated with tattooed skinheads and violent thugs, rock wannabes and, worst of all, universal indifference to his talent. As

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moose House Publications
• Release date: Oct 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781990187520

Andy Tolson

Andy Tolson spent much of the 1980s as a drummer in London, England, playing both pubs and concert halls, though mostly pubs. He has been a boy magician, prop-maker, and writer. At the National Post and Maclean's magazine, Tolson was a photojournalist and editor. He now lives in Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia.

Book preview

One

Where is Anthony?

Trafalgar Square looks like a damp postcard. I flop under Nelson’s Column. Jet lag pulls at my eyelids. Pigeons use me as target practice. My suitcase bulges with all my shit. I might as well have ‘tourist’ stamped on my forehead.

Grey September clouds grow dark. It starts to drizzle. Then pour. Umbrellas bloom. Everyone runs for cover except me.

And a skinhead.

He slurps from a can of beer. Foam runs down his cheeks. He looks over at me. I look at my Keds.

Where the fuck is Anthony?

I am soaked with greasy rain. Smog and humidity choke my lungs. I close my eyes, heart beating double-time with the traffic rhythm. Cab drivers add their horns to the street band. Maybe I’ll grab the cymbals from my suitcase and pound out a beat:

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Then Big Ben chimes in at 11:00 o’clock and London becomes one big beautiful wall of noise. I open my eyes but see nothing. Has the world gone black?

No, it’s the skinhead towering over me, blocking out the light. Rain splatters his bare scalp. On his monstrous black boots are notches where he’s murdered other scrawny young men. Maybe I could handle your average thug. Maybe. What rattles me about this guy is his tattoo. Not 'Mother' or even a skull and crossbones. Scrawled on his face is a crudely drawn spider's web. The words I AM A PILLOCK are etched into his forehead.

He speaks: All right, mate?

My throat tightens. I want to ask him what a ‘pillock’ is and whether it’s contagious. With the way I’m dressed, you’d think he’d spare me. I mean, we’re sort of from the same tribe.

I say, How’s it going?

One thick eyebrow lifts. From the States, then, are ya?

Is this good or bad? Am I seconds away from an international incident? Across the square on a proud and noble building, a maple leaf flag flutters in the wind. My flag. Within running distance. Within crawling distance.

Canada, I say. Actually.

He taps a stained and bony finger against his temple. Fink me Auntie lives in Canada. Norma Green. You know ’er?

Does he expect details about Auntie Norma? Her recent surgery? Maybe Auntie Norma took a dirt nap and he wants to catch me lying so—

Don’t matter, he says, leaning towards me, breath smelling like wet fur. Got a few pence for the needy?

I fumble for my wallet and pull out a five-pound note. Snatching the bill from my hand he holds it up to the grey London light.

It’s real, I say.

He stuffs it in the pocket of his tight jeans. Fanks, mate, he says, and strides across the square.

My heart skips with relief. Dodged my first bullet.

Anthony is a cousin of Mom’s. He’s the only person I know in London. He hasn’t been back to Halifax in years. On our mantelpiece at home, we keep a picture of him wearing ugly lime-green pants and a tight paisley shirt. The thing is a blouse. I would fucking die if I had to wear any of that sixties shit.

Understandably, he was surprised when I called him from Heathrow a couple of hours ago. I remember Mom said he was ‘nice’. Probably other sides to his personality. I’m throwing myself at the nice part.

A black cab pulls up. The back door opens. Inside, a man waves and says, Yoo-hoo, Billy Stamp?

Traffic skids to a halt behind the taxi. London’s once-musical horns blap and honk with fury as I drag my heavy suitcase behind me.

Sorry, you had to wait, the voice in the cab says. Did you have a safe trip?

As I climb in, the cab swerves into the road, launching me against the black leather seat. My bag lands in Anthony’s lap and he grimaces at the weight. London’s all-consuming noise is now muffled and distant.

Struggling to remember anything Mom said about him, I say, Mom’s told me a lot about you.

When I heave my bag to the floor, the cymbals make a muted clang. Anthony gives me a funny look. Not funny humorous, but funny weird. Like he’s trying to read my mind. No doubt he thinks I’m a fucking handful with my ripped t-shirt and hair gelled into spikes.

This Anthony, the 1979 version, has changed a lot since the sixties. He has swapped the groovy hippy threads for a pink striped shirt and green corduroy pants. He has an English accent and the same soft eyes as Mom. Not sure, but I think he’s gay. Maybe that’s what she meant by ‘nice’.

My God, he says. You look just like your father. Uncanny.

I glance out the window. Hadn’t thought about it.

He straightens his glasses. How’s your mother? It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken.

London blurs by like a travel film on fast forward. Even though I’m dazed and dizzy, I force my voice to sound confident. Mom’s great. Just great.

And it’s Bob, right? Her new husband?

Yeah, Bob, I say. The same spelled backwards.

Sorry.

Forget it.

He blows his nose, returns the Kleenex to his pocket. So, tell me, Billy, why ever would you want to leave Canada?

No way will I give him the whole story. I’m a drummer.

He nods as if my words are layered with profound meaning, then leans forward, whispers something to the driver.

The man wears a flat tweed cap. Face looks like a well-used boxing glove. He says, Your penny, guv.

Guv. I love that.

Anthony winks. Slight detour.

We zoom past Big Ben. Sightseeing boats on the Thames chug by. Being on the wrong side of the road is like driving in a mirror and the narrow streets make me shift to the middle of the seat. Anthony gives me a mini-lecture on the weather, architecture, and current political gossip. He’s pretty good at squeaky voices of various monarchs. But I’m not here for a history lesson. I need to get to the Marquee Club.

The rain fizzles out and the sun slices through the afternoon clouds. I squint at the street names. The cab veers up Chelsea Bridge Road, circles Sloane Square and starts down the King’s Road.

Suddenly my ears are filled with a chorus of angels.

Holy shit.

I am smack dab in punk rock heaven, dozens of rebels, all weighed heavy with chains and leather. Their towering multi-coloured Mohawks reach up to touch the sky. Halifax has a few fake punks. These are the real deal.

Anthony chuckles. Is this what you wanted to see, Billy? Safety pins in noses? That sort of thing?

Speechless, I can only nod, face pressed against the window. These are my people.

He says, I saw an ad on the telly the other day….

Huh?

Some punk rock ensemble selling bubble gum. So very anti-establishment, I thought.

I don’t really hear him. On a street corner, there’s two guys wearing ripped jeans and leather jackets, guitars slung low to their knees. Their voices rattle through a tiny amplifier, GOD SAVE THE QUEEN, SHE AIN’T NO HUMAN BEING.

We slow as a girl with green lipstick and skin-tight rubber pants catches me gawking. She sticks out her tongue and grabs her crotch.

Cool, I say.

Soon my best friend Gordie will be here. Together, we’ll be knee-deep in London anarchy. You can have all that Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey crap. Give us screeching guitars and pounding drums any day. We’ll rule this town.

The cab slows at a crosswalk in front of a pub. Businessmen mingle with leather-clad rockers, all sipping beer in the late morning haze.

You’re allowed to drink booze on the street? I say.

Civilized, isn’t it?

As the taxi speeds up, a young mod wearing a long trench coat and riding a Vespa scooter swerves in front of us. The cabby slams on the brakes, mutters, Fucken punks are everywhere.

Sir, Anthony says. That boy is a mod. Rather different, I’d say, from a punk rocker. Am I right, Billy?

He’s trying to impress me. I shrug like I’m sort of impressed.

Two

We stop beside a long row of houses in a quiet leafy square.

West Brompton, Anthony says. Not exactly rebel central, Billy, but it suits Raj and me.

A ritzy lady strolls past. She’s about a hundred and six and looks as if a demented clown applied her makeup. A rodent-like creature, which I suspect is a dog, trails behind her, its ‘yap, yap, yap’ echoing against the brick buildings. For height alone, the lady’s gravity-defying bouffant could compete with the Mohican-haired punks in Chelsea. Teetering on high heels, she’s dressed like a million bucks or a million pounds, which reminds me I should figure out the exchange rate.

Anthony whispers, Just because she’s friendly with Lady Soames, she thinks she can do as she pleases. We’ve told her to have that thing on a leash.

I smirk. Her hair?

Sorry?

Forget it.

He waves at her. Lovely day, Elsie, don’t you think?

The woman glances over at us, then hurries away. She’s disgusted by my radical appearance.

But Anthony says under his breath, I’m surprised she doesn’t start a petition against us.

Huh?

C’mon, Billy. Let’s get you settled.

At the foot of his stairs, I say, Man, you must be loaded.

He sighs. Hardly.

Before following him through the door, I take a deep breath of London. My lungs fill with a thousand years of soot and grime and anarchy. Yeah, Canada is big. A boy could get lost in its total emptiness. But London is a different kind of big. A better kind of big. I’m struggling to describe its bigness, it’s absolute humongousness, when I hear Anthony’s voice: Shall we go inside?

In the hallway, my bag thumps to the floor. Anthony takes off his jacket to reveal circles of sweat under his arms. In Britain, he says, this is called a flat. He waves his hand at the front room, cozy leather couch, big pillows, bookcases, plants everywhere. Comfortable. I don’t need comfort.

You live on your own?

As I mentioned, I live with Raj, he says. He’s the creative one around here. Right, let me take your coat. He makes a theatrical grimace. Carrying the weight of the world, are you?

I stop myself from sneering at his joke. I can’t use up all my sneers.

Do you want to ring your mum? he says. Let her know you arrived safely? I’m rather surprised she didn’t let us know you were coming.

I avoid his question mark expression by sliding in my white socks across the wood floor. On the wall are framed pictures of flowers and some old photos of people who I figure are probably dead because their clothes are straight out of Masterpiece Theatre. Everyone is from some country where it's mandatory for men to have bushy moustaches. A couple of them carry swords. Back then, nobody smiled in pictures. Life in black and white was bleak.

Food sizzles. The smell tastes foreign and sweet, tickles my nose. Anthony’s in the kitchen, whispering to whoever’s cooking. He laughs at some joke I don't hear.

When I turn the corner to the small kitchen, there’s a man at a wooden table that’s covered with mounds of sliced vegetables.

Anthony says, Raj is wondering if you like things spicy.

I only choked down a small wedge of stringy meat on the plane. My stomach growls like a chainsaw.

Raj looks close to Anthony’s age. Losing his hair. His skin is dark olive compared to Anthony’s pasty complexion. His moustache dances when he smiles and for some reason I think of a magician. He stands, wipes his fingers on a dishcloth, then shakes my hand.

You must be the creative one, I say.

Anthony is a compulsive liar, Billy. He pats me on the back. You’ll have to keep an eye on him. He pulls out a chair for me then turns to the sink. Angry?

"Course I’m angry. I slouch down. Show me a punk who ain’t."

Anthony looks confused.

Raj says, "I asked if you were hungry."

My face turns the colour of a stop sign. Well, guess I could eat something.

Three

I am eleven. A gawky kid. Nothing special.

Stevie Wonder and his band are on Sesame Street playing Superstition. I’m too old to watch kid’s shows, but the force of the music pulls me from the safety of my bed into the living room. My parents are in the basement, their shouting rising through the floor.

I crank up the volume knob until our cheap TV speakers shake and hiss. My toes wiggle in the shag carpet.

The drummer has a huge black Afro and I want to reach in the screen, take it off his head and toss it in the air like a beach ball. The horns add staccato toots. The kids in the audience shake to the powerful beat of Stevie’s band.

I am hypnotized.

The camera moves past Stevie, past the bass player and stops on the drummer. He’s from another planet, arms like huge snakes, wavy and loose. When he wallops the cymbals, they ring like church bells. He wears a solemn expression. Hitting those drums is serious business. The drums are his religion.

Then the drummer looks into the camera. Get on down, Billy, he tells me. You gotta move.

A blast of electricity shoots through my junior hips. I’m shaking on the carpet, possessed by the demons of rhythm. My heart bursts with joy. This is the most fun I’ve had in months. Maybe ever.

Everyone on Sesame Street moves in time to the drummer’s funky beat. And there I am, too, reflected in the TV screen and frantically drumming the air.

Mom runs into the room. I don’t turn around, knowing what I’ll see.

I’m lost in the groove.

Four

West Brompton tube station. I stare at the jumble of geometry on the London Underground map.

Behind me, confident and experienced travellers swish through the turnstile. The ticket man in the booth ignores them. He reads a newspaper and nibbles on a sandwich. A dab of yellow mustard clings to the corner of his mouth.

I knock on the glass. Soho?

Nibble. Nibble. Nibble.

I’m meeting someone in Soho. At the Marquee Club. A date with destiny.

He doesn’t look up from the sports section. Get off at Earl’s Court. Change to the Piccadilly Line. He licks a finger, turns the page. You want Leicester Square.

I push a stack of coins across the counter.

He removes a couple, pushes the rest back. You said Soho, lad. Not Scotland.

I sprint down the stairs as the tube train approaches the platform. In the crowded car, I squeeze onto a seat beside a well-dressed young woman. She’s reading a newspaper. The Times. When she looks at me I give her a sneer. She rolls her eyes, goes back to reading.

Everyone is reading newspapers. The Sun. The Daily Mail. The Mirror. Except for the tat, tat, tat on the tracks, it’s quiet as a library. I don’t like quiet. Makes me nervous.

Across from me the headlines blend together to make a horizontal poem:

PM TAKES TOUGH STAND ON OPPOSITION WEIGHT LOSS CAN HELP YOU WIN FRIENDS ADDICTED TO LOVE BUT ONLY UNITED VIES FOR CUP.

One newspaper has a big picture of Margaret Thatcher. Fake-ass smile. Hair shellacked to her head like a fascist helmet. Bob spelled backwards loves Thatcher. The Iron Lady. Good for the country, he says. Only good for the rich, says the Clash.

At Earl’s Court, I hurry down a maze of tunnels and search for the Piccadilly Line. On the platform, the tube doors open with a whoosh. I jump, sealed in, bound for glory.

A filthy woman carries a filthy little girl through the car. Her eyes are black marbles, hair tangled. She smells sour, like rotten fruit.

Someone mutters, Bloody gypsies.

Yes, please, the girl says, tiny hand extended, fingerails chipped. I think of that movie Oliver. Everyone is dirt poor but still singing and dancing.

Some passengers scrounge in pockets and purses. Most turn away. When the girl comes to me, I give her a pound note. I wonder if she can carry a tune.

Piccadilly Circus.

No actual circus.

I am seriously hyperventilating with excitement and nerves. I can’t blow this.

Tourists crane their necks over the crowd, checking maps and watches. I pull out my A-Z, the essential and excellent guide to every street in London.

Page 61. Soho.

The A-Z is like a divining rod. Divine intervention. I’m on a pilgrimage and I’ve circled all the punk landmarks with a black felt pen, the pages dark with my scratchings.

Pink neon signs advertise ’GIRLS!’ Scraggly women lean against graffiti-stained walls. Others crouch in damp stairwells and drag on cigarettes. I know I’m supposed to feel something, to get a stiffy, but looking at them only makes me feel sick and scared.

One shouts at me in a coughing voice, C’mon, luv, you wanna have a go?

I stumble past more peep shows and enter a market crowded with fruit and vegetable stalls. I check the A-Z.

Oi! Watch yourself, a man says, pushing a cart of fruit. You nearly knocked me over.

Wardour Street?

Next one over.

The Marquee Club?

Bit early to be clubbing?

I’m a drummer.

All right, sunshine, tap us out a tune.

I give him a full on sneer. The best I’ve got. Fucking glorious.

He laughs. Others around us laugh. Then I laugh, too.

All right, off ya go, he says, waving me on.

As I turn the corner onto Wardour Street, a coppery taste appears in my mouth. Anxiety, nerves? Have to remember to breathe.

When I cross the street, I see it.

But I don’t want to run because running will make it come faster. What if I’m disappointed? What if this is a stupid mistake?

I now touch the glass. History under my fingers. And when I step back and get a good look, I realize it’s kind of