Chapter 2

SHOVE IT!

Watch Shove It! Live at the Cafe Click

A smattering of applause. An encouraging whistle (that’s me).

The busy, bouncing bass-line and sizzling hi-hat get things happening. The thud of the kick-drum and the smack of the snare provide additional propulsion.

Over this flatted fifth up-tempo be-bop intro comes the guttural Yorkshire declamatory drawl:
“Thank you.........and now, in a major new onslaught on the CONSERVATIVE Party of Great Britain, and ALL OTHER Governments, XERO SLINGSBY AND THE WORKS bring you.....‘SHOVE IT!’ ”

listen to shove it! (opens a new window)

Slingsby's alto saxophone rips into the rhythms, worrying the drums and accoustic bass like a murderous dog. Xero, Louis and Gene are instantly aligned - three moving pistons of a majestically smooth engine. They know this tune only too well. Inside out, you might say, right through to the ironic rendition of a few bars of The Death March at the end. This is the first unforgettable tune on that first vinyl recording: The Works' very first High Fidelity, Long Playing record. And like so many of their tunes it has a way of burrowing, bug-like right through your ear and on into your brain - a particularly virulent form of musical encephalitis.

We are in the cramped Cafe Click in deserted downtown Essen. If I was to tell them what they remind me of they would think me totally insane, so I keep to myself the observation that they resemble three Tibetan Monks making a sand mandala. I’ve seen these monks create a complex mandala from grains of coloured sand, only to sweep it up and throw it in the nearest river.

And while these three musicians are hardly leading an abstemious monkish lifestyle, their creation is an aural equivalent: It is performed; It is recorded and listened to, maybe even appreciated; and then it is cast aside, a black plastic frisbee, a vinyl ashtray. As those self-same Monks might say: “It is always going to be the finger pointing at the moon. It can never be the moon itself ”.

How the moon is shining tonight! A sixty something drunk in a light grey suit staggers about in the foreground, right under Xero, Louis and Gene's noses. He's calling out
“VANZIN! VANZIN!” and is obviously having a ball. He has just called in for a quick beer on his way home and here he is, faced with this wild contemporary happening at his normally sedate working man’s bar. Back in 1938, our man Fritz ("Frankie" to his mates) had been punched and kicked and spat upon by the Hitler Youth, simply for being a Swing Kid. Here he is now, laughing in the faces of the fascists all over again as he luxuriates in the heat emanating from these three young musicians. "Das ist so HOT!" he calls out before collapsing in the corner of the bar.

Hip music industry invitees stand around in snappily dressed huddles, trying to chat, flirt and be cool. In these surroundings they are like so many fish out of water: Underneath their confident, poised exteriors they are all flapping around and gasping, suffocated by the proletarian air of the place. They would never normally be seen dead in a town like this, never mind a bar like this. A scan around the bar reveals a few finely etched faces of locals, discreetly fascinated by these three English musicians. Everyone is taken aback at the ferocity of Xero’s intro and the subsequent roller coaster of sound, nervously smiling, not quite sure what to expect.

Then come the tom toms in the middle of Shove It - straight from the post-war forties, complete with mental images of uniformed men and women throwing each other around with gay abandon, glad and relieved to be alive. A single cognisant smile snakes its way around the audience. And then the surging, soaring saxophone lines kick in and take the lead again, phrases where Xero seems to turn in on himself and tie his throat and lungs in knots. Another serpentine smirk slithers around the Cafe Click, hanging around right through to the end of the night.

At the end of this first number the atmosphere is already becoming intimate. The crowd is genuinely, warmly appreciative and listening now to the priceless recording of that night, the collective pleasant surprise in the room is tangible. The bemused regulars line the bar, resolving now to hang around for another few drinks, to see what all the fuss is about. Their café has had a make over and the walls are now bedecked with art nouveau posters and mirrors. Wires and electronic gadgets are scattered all over the stage. It looks like a film set. All of the ingredients are in place for an intriguing evening.

Watch a Video of "Up Down" Live at cafe Click, Essen 1985

But it’s not Free Jazz. Any idea of improvisation has been left behind at the last gig in Amsterdam. What ends up on the 8-track analogue tape machine is a breathtaking sequence of three and four minute tunes - the bare bones of their normal set. They are the skeletons around which they've been working for years and which they can now play standing on their heads, literally. They've been fine-tuned and honed to perfection. The fury with which they deliver such numbers as “Up Down”, “Hurricane Damage in Leeds”, “King Kong” and “Pixieland (where all the dead jazz people go)” is truly awesome. The slower, more sumptuous tunes such as “Revenge of the Kerbstones”, “Three Men in a Tub” and “Tom Waits For No Man” are played with equal panache. The Works have never sounded more in tune with each other. The three of them are about to spontaneously combust.

They have done a few warm-up gigs on their way to Germany. One was in Ghent, in the Flemish part of Belgium, at their beloved venue - the Cafe Damberd. Another three were in Amsterdam. For several months I have been hitching around northern Europe, playing their demo tapes and showing their photos to a handful of agents and record companies. They have consistently raised eyebrows - especially over here on the continent . The tapes are invariably listened to “on the mainland” with a much more open attitude than in England. European promoters and audiences are infinitely more appreciative of the wilder, freer end of the musical spectrum than are their English counterparts.

Some of these contacts are beginning to pay dividends. A string of gigs is already booked for the autumn. Even back at home, after years of hard graft, The Works are starting to attract something approaching the attention and respect that they deserve. What’s more, they are starting to be paid more than just beer money to play - a major breakthrough, given the tight-wad nature of most British landlords and promoters.

Heinz Schnaffel, photographer unknown

My old friend in Koln, Heinz Schnaffel, has a recording studio. He and his partner Suzi are trying to get a fledgling label and booking agency off the ground. For The Works, it’s an exciting development to be thinking about releasing albums and organising bona fide tours. For my German friends, it is as if all of their Christmases have come at once. This wild and wonderful group from the North of England is manna from heaven - You just never know, they could even prove to be The Next Big Thing. It's two years since I met Heinz on a black sand beach beneath a volcano in Java. Now here he is organising the P.A. and recording equipment at the Cafe Click. The exquisitely angular Suzi Kawumna is the one who has put the Buzz around the local music industry.

“Everyone's here!” she says with the proudest of grins. We each have a large celebratory schnapps in our hands. We clink our glasses together and say "Prost!" before downing them in one.
“Radio, TV, magazine and newspaper journalists, photographers, a man with a Wideo recorder, A&R people from the big record companies. I think I've done vell, don't you Syd?”
“I do, Suzi. I think you've done wery vell!”

Suzi Kawumna

I am totally intoxicated - by the schnapps, by her, by Heinz, by the music, and by the endless possibilities. This is a dream come true, the recording of an album, all of these people crammed into this tiny made-over cafe, late at night, so many of them that there's barely enough room for the musicians to squeeze in and ply their trade.

Watch Video of "Orang Utango" Live at Cafe Click, Essen 1985

Yet that is exactly what happens, for squeezing in and plying their trade is what these three do best. They are craftsmen. Every number put down on tape tonight will later emerge as a cut and polished precious gem. The set steam rolls on with “Orangu Tango” (with Slingsby's simian saxophone capturing the Sumatran ape so exquisitely), “Unicycling”, “Dearly Beloved”: All of the tunes are delivered with a vengeance that I find almost scary. It's pure voodoo, and powerful voodoo at that. My own personal favourite is the “Mauve Mercedes With The Padlock On The Boot”- as voluptuous as the leather upholstery of the vehicle in question.

Listen to "Orangu Tango"

“Out of the In Door” ( dedicated to shoplifters everywhere, to uncomprehending German stares ) is always fairly frenetic but tonight its climactic ending sums up everything about the three of them. They get their collective breath back, have a drink and a wipe down with a sweaty towel, and prepare to launch into "Out of the Wok and Into the Aga". I look across at Heinz, expecting to see him all smiles and raised thumbs. Instead he is a picture of panic, frantically unwinding and rewinding spools of inch wide tape. I couldn't believe it - their best rendition ever of one of their most rabble rousing numbers and the bloody tape has run out just as the tune reaches its orgasm. That certain Je Ne Sais Quoi simply refusing to be captured for posterity.

HERE IT IS CAPTURED - Watch Video of "Out of the In Door" Live at Cafe Click, Essen 1985

Five nights ago, at the Cafe Damberd, they were sharing a bill with the deranged Dutch performance poet, Jules Deelder. He was loud, full of phlegm and equally popular with the knowledgeable Damberd crowd. Someone gave Slingsby a brown paper bag in which was a mysterious white powder. Turned out to be whizz and over the last four days and nights it has disappeared up their noses. By the time we got to Koln and on to Essen for the gig, all three of them have become somewhat other-worldly to say the least. The Night of The Living Dead has got nothing on these guys. Do Not Try This At Home!

They are now paranoid and hyperactive, especially so when we walk down the street and they find themselves on the receiving end of the disapproving stares which so many of the older German people are wont to dish out to anyone who dares to look even a little different. So these three aliens are having to get used to being stared at big time. They’ve had so little sleep for so many days now that they are in danger of becoming seriously unhinged. So when Heinz gives them the OK to start, and the Wideo guy starts to film, and the wall of faces stares back at them expectantly - the three of them slip into auto-pilot. The aural eruption that takes place results in music that's like a torrent of lava. The three of them have played all of these tunes together just so flipping often.

At the first meeting between Schnaffel, Kawumna and the trio, the Germans were over the moon. The language used by Xero, Louis and Gene often prompted Heinz to chuckle and giggle and Suzi to smirk her knowing smirk.
“You English are incredible! You are the only people I know who could take the werb 'fuck' and find so many und waried uses for it!” She said.
“Your language is so expressive compared to our boring Cherman” chuckled Schnaffel.

To prove them right, we all had immense fun rattling off the many and waried uses we could think of. Like little kids looking up rude words in a dictionary, we collapsed into helpless laughter as we recognised the bizarre nature of our native tongue. “Fuck It!” “Get Fucked!” “Fuck me Dead” “Fucking Hell”. The list went on. The idea for a "concept" album was hatched and the three musicians talked about writing a tune to suit each phrase.
“With a bit of luck you might even be banned and instantly notorious!” I observed, never truly expecting that anything of the sort might happen, but thinking how neat it would be to be out of debt.

Xero, Louis and Gene didn’t need such a gimmick. They already had more than enough tunes to fill several LP's. At the end of the second set at the Cafe Click, the crescendo to “Eric’s Window” echoes away into the night and the audience screams and whistles for more. As The Works do their rehearsed disappearing act during their perennial encore “The End”, the full moon bathes Essen in molten mercury. We’ve all been poor and struggling for long enough now. We’re hoping for success but none of us are prepared for the future that fate will bring. We are akin to the citizens of Pompeii in the immediate aftermath of the eruption of Vesuvius, just before the lava descends upon them.

Watch a video of "Shove It!" Live at Cosmo Club, Chapeltown, Leeds

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