Mark Rice's Blog: All Things Metallic - Posts Tagged "metallic-dreams"

Well, it's been a long time coming. Somewhere back in the mists of time (actually, in a cottage in Sutherland, Scottish Highlands, September 2005) I had an idea for a work of fiction that would weave together mythology, religion, folklore, heavy metal culture, childhood dreams, blood rituals and lots of rock 'n' roll excess. Coming up with the idea was the easy part. What came next was a year of non-stop writing as the story sprawled out into a War and Peace-length manuscript, then two years of editing to trim the fat and make sure every page of Metallic Dreams flowed easily and naturally.

The story challenges prejudices and contains an underlying message which is communicated via the actions of characters, not by authorial intrusion. My job, as I saw it, was to get out of the way and let the story unfold. As the old saying goes, 'Show, don't tell.'

Metallic Dreams is not a book for the faint-hearted. It is cerebral, visceral, graphic and emotionally charged. While editing, I turned my bullshit detector up to maximum and removed everything superfluous or pretentious. The novel is inspired by timeless childhood dreams and my ongoing love affair with music.

I hope you like it.

Mark Rice, Hamilton, January 2011

There's definitely a balance in the Universe. Today, on the same day that the external hard drive containing all the Metallic Dreams data (as well as hundreds of Gigabytes of music, movies and TV shows) decided to die, my book received another touching five-star review on amazon. I'm choosing to focus on the review, as it's always life-affirming to hear that a story has resonated with a reader. In fact, that's the whole point of storytelling. It's not about authors' egos or publishing houses' profit margins; it's about stirring up emotions in readers and making them feel.

As far as the hard drive goes, I've learned an expensive lesson: if data's important don't pick an external hard drive based on its storage capacity or price; choose a drop-tested model that's shockproof, waterproof, fireproof and bulletproof, as it will keep those priceless zeros and ones safe. With any luck, a data-recovery specialist will be able to retrieve everything from my old drive and transfer it onto a new, more resilient one. For a few hundred quid, of course. Long ago I figured out that when it comes to toilet paper, washing-up liquid and coffee, you get what you pay for. I can now add external hard drives to that list.

And what holy missile of wrath destroyed the drive? A plate. Not a large or particularly heavy plate. Just a regular plate which slid off the bed and fell one foot onto the hard drive's 'sturdy plastic casing'.

Right now I'm off to have a mozzarella and pesto pizza along with a huge mug of filter coffee...just to tip the balance a little further towards good.

Opinions on Bill Drummond vary wildly. To some, he is an opportunistic and shameless self-publicist willing to do almost anything to draw attention to himself. Others believe him to be a visionary, a creative genius who turns everything he touches into art: music; painting; photography; conceptual ideas; literature. I'm in the latter camp. One of the things I like most about Bill is that he thinks big. In fact, he thinks mythically. He doesn't start a creative project without first having an absolutely clear understanding of: (a) why he is doing it, and (b) the symbolic meaning of the finished product. Sometimes only Bill himself fully appreciates what he's trying to achieve with a particular piece of work, but that doesn't diminish his enthusiasm one bit.

$20,000 is affecting me in the same way that Drummond's previous books did: upon seeing art through his eyes - or through the filter of his mind, at least - I step out each day into a world that seems full of promise and beauty, an arena of mythic possibilities.

Bill goes to great lengths to avoid actually enjoying himself, but many of his artistic statements are rich in irony, and obviously the products of a finely tuned sense of humour.

From creating timeless music with the KLF to producing the greatest heavy metal album of all time (Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction's 'Tattooed Beat Messiah') to embarking upon world-adventuring voyages of personal and artistic discovery, Drummond's intrepid and irrepressible creative drive is an inspiration. Thank you, Mr Drummond, for changing my worldview for the better.

Have you ever heard it said that you shouldn’t meet your heroes, as it’ll only lead to disappointment? It’s one of the things ‘they’ say. Then again, ‘they’ talk a fair amount of shit. Existence is infinitely more satisfying when we think for ourselves and come to our own conclusions.

I recently met one of my musical heroes, Zodiac Mindwarp, heavy metal’s poet laureate and badass adventurer/novelist to boot. As a 16-year-old, I’d seen Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction blow the roof off Glasgow Barrowlands on their Tattooed Beat Messiah tour. Back then, the heavy metal press was predicting that Zodiac would be the next big thing. The metal media recognised him as a lyrical genius with a wild sense of humour and a knack for crafting timeless songs. The band seemed to have everything on a plate: a deal with a major record label; critical acclaim; adoration from fans; lyrical and musical talent in spades; a dirty image that was part Motörhead, part Hell’s Angel and part spaghetti-western gunslinger. The prophesied zillions of album sales never happened, though. Fiercely protective of his artistic vision, Zodiac refused to compromise when record-label executives asked him to water down his look and sound. The label wanted a UK version of Bon Jovi and – inexplicably – believed that a bunch of tattooed, diesel-fumed, poetry-spouting, insanely intelligent heavy metal behemoths from Yorkshire, England could be rubbed clean, polished, lobotomised, repackaged and convinced to record insincere pseudo-love songs with bubblegum lyrics. This suggestion did not go down well with Mr Mindwarp. Instead of using his £40,000 advance fee from the record label to rent a studio and begin work on a new album (as they had instructed), Zodiac spent the lot on drugs and comics. In one day. A symbolic act of defiance by a visionary who couldn’t be lured off his true course. Throughout the next couple of decades, ZM navigated his own path, fuelled by unflinching self-belief and artistic integrity. Record labels came and went, as did a string of bandmates, but the core of the group - Zodiac and his trusty guitarist Cobalt Stargazer - weathered every storm together. Rather than allowing himself to be transformed into the poster boy of record-label executives’ drooling dollar-encrusted fantasies, Zodiac became a cult figure, an anti-hero metal deity who walked it as he talked it, always speaking his mind without fear. He remained one of the good guys.

Zodiac generously gave me permission to quote his lyrics in my novel, Metallic Dreams. During the course of our back-and-forth e-mails about the book, I came to know Zodiac as Z; this single letter was how he ended his messages and how I started mine. The brevity of the ‘Z’ nomenclature seemed strangely ironic when associated with this man, as his public persona has had many grandiose titles: Zodiac Mindwarp; the High Priest of Love; the Skull Spark Joker; He of the Untamed Stare; the Zen Master; the Sleazegrinder; the Steel-Cage Jockey with the Starborn Connection; the Prime Mover; and the title which more than any other came to define him - the Tattooed Beat Messiah. To me, though, he was now simply Z. I liked that. It seemed that despite his unquestionable genius, this man was humble at heart.

By chance – or serendipity – Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction’s first Scottish gig in years coincided with the release of Metallic Dreams. A couple of days before the concert, I received an e-mail from Z’s tour manager. It stated, ‘Your presence is requested backstage after the gig. Be there. Z says hi.’ This message stirred up in me a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Zodiac Mindwarp’s backstage antics are legendary. Tales abound of multiple ‘punk-rock bitches’ gaffer-taped to walls and floors, bare bottoms exposed, ready to be plundered by Z when the Viking bumlust comes over him. And those are the tame stories. The books Fucked by Rock: The Unspeakable Confessions of Zodiac Mindwarp and Collateral Damage: The Zodiac Mindwarp American Tour Daries are uncensored descriptions of life on the road with the Mindwarp man. By comparison, Mötley Crüe’s autobiography reads like a politically correct fairytale. It seemed that I had been invited into the lion’s den, the inner sanctum of depravity.

On gig night I hit the mean streets of Glasgow headed for the ABC, an old renovated cinema now used for concerts. Definitely one of my favourite venues in the city. Good acoustics, small enough to be intimate, and with a dark ambience. In my rucksack was a signed copy of Metallic Dreams, a gift for Z. When the lights went down inside the ABC, I looked on with a smile as my old inspiration and new friend Z swaggered onto the stage, pulling a few of his trademark poses along the way. Z’s filthy battle-scarred leather waistcoat sported an oil-streaked patch that read: PROTECTED BY LOADED GUNS. His shirt was strategically open, revealing a solid black cross tattoo – one of his newer additions – stretching across-chest and down-abdomen. Two songs in, my friend Darran let out a fart so foul that the people around him – me included - flew into a panic. (Actually, the word ‘fart’ doesn’t come close to describing the smell that came out of his body: truer to say that Darran expelled an evil mist.) As panic rippled through the crowd, which was parting like the Red Sea, Darran stood at the epicentre of the devastation, grinning like the village idiot. Meanwhile, on stage, Z sashayed and swaggered, slithered and pouted, stomped and growled, oblivious - or perhaps immune – to the olfactory genocide that was occurring a few feet below him. Despite the mass NAE (Near-Asphyxiation Experience), the gig was phenomenal.

When the band left the stage and the last vestiges of overdriven feedback from Cobalt Stargazer’s guitar amps dulled to a hum, I stepped into the backstage abyss. There he was, reclining on a rust-coloured sofa - Z: the apocalyptic heavy metal biker poet from a far-flung planet. No naked punk-rock bitches were gaffer-taped to surfaces. Some females were present, but they weren’t the teenage tottie of backstage lore. These were women with dangerous curves, lascivious smiles and more than a few miles on the clock. Predators rather than prey. The women were clothed (mostly) and had the freedom of movement that not being gaffer-taped to a wall allows. Z seemed nonplussed by their presence. I approached Z, who spotted the copy of Metallic Dreams in my hand and greeted me before I could introduce myself. Like an excited child at Christmas, he opened the book and read the hand-written dedication. “What chapter do I make an appearance?” he asked. I replied that he first appears in chapter 14. “Fookin’ excellent,” he grinned, “I’m going to read this in my hotel room tonight. Thank you, Mr Rice.” (In e-mails, Z had always insisted on calling me ‘Mr Rice’, an unnecessary formality but one which I came to understand as a sort of respect, something the Z man only extends to those he perceives as kindred spirits.) ‘Holy crap,’ I thought, sitting on that burnished backstage sofa, ‘I now exist in the mind of Mindwarp. This will surely lead to some kind of cosmic chaos.’

Z and I chatted about literature and poetry, shared passions. We discussed the two adventurous quests he had made with Bill Drummond, which resulted in the books Bad Wisdom and Wild Highway. I asked about his proposed third adventure, and the book that would follow, completing the trilogy. Z fixed me with his Untamed Stare and whispered, “I really want to do the third trip, but I think it might kill me. Or Drummond. Or both. I don’t know how we survived those first two adventures. It’s a miracle.” Z steered the conversation to my novel, its genesis and inspirations, its message. As I talked about the celestial significance of ‘sounds of power’, inverted crucifixion, the uprising of the old Viking religion in modern-day Norway, and the importance of protecting very closely those fragile childhood dreams, Z held Metallic Dreams up to the light, gazed at the bloody pentalpha on its cover, grinned, and nodded what I could only perceive as approval. At that moment, I was struck by a wave of epiphany: I had been enjoying Z’s art for decades; now he was appreciating mine. As that surreal realisation sank in, I felt a mixture of humility, gratitude and happiness.

The backstage area began to clear of bodies. A blonde woman (who claimed to be the secret lovechild of Debbie Harry and Iggy Pop) asked me what Z and I had been so deep in conversation about. I told her about Metallic Dreams. She looked me up and down, an expression of astonishment hijacking her face, and said, “You wrote a book?” (I should mention that I had neither shaved nor had a haircut in almost a year, and so looked like a caveman, but still…you can’t judge a book by its cover…or a man by his ursine exterior.) As the lovechild apologised for her lack of tact (and I laughed my arse off, thinking it all very funny), Z was politely declining the advances of a voluptuous brunette admirer. “What do you mean you’re going back to your hotel to read a book?” asked the baffled woman. “I want to come to your hotel room and do all kinds of things to you. You’re Zodiac Fucking Mindwarp, the King of Debauchery, and you’re turning down a night with this?” Using hand gestures, the comely brunette accentuated her curves. Z replied, “I’ve done all that a million times. It isn’t like twenty years ago. I have a girlfriend. And tonight I’m going back to my hotel room, where I’m going to start reading Mr Rice’s book.” The woman began to argue the point, so I intervened, pointing out that: (A) pushiness wouldn’t get her anywhere, nor would desperation; (B) I was the author of the book in question, and didn’t appreciate her trying to vagina-block Z’s intended reading activities. She glared at me, then her expression softened and she smiled.

The backstage crowd spilled out of the building onto Sauchiehall Street. As the guitarist from Scottish band The Deadly Romantics educated Blondie’s (alleged) daughter on the finer points of cellular regeneration in the human body, their vocalist, Bruce Hotchkies, chatted to me about Metallic Dreams. Z walked up to a homeless man and began talking in hushed tones. After a few minutes, the homeless man asked me if he could borrow a pen to get Z’s autograph. I pulled a pen from my rucksack and told him to keep it, as I had others at home. The brunette, meanwhile, was still trying to coax Z into her panties. Having given up on the full-frontal assault, she was now attempting to tease him from a distance. Oblivious to her advances, Z spent the next ten minutes transforming the front page of the homeless man’s Big Issue magazine into a work of art. Most ‘rock stars’ wouldn’t have given this man the time of day, let alone an autograph. Z, however, was happy to chat with, and create one-of-a-kind artwork for, a fellow human being who was down on his luck. As I looked at the comic art, marvelling at its intricacy, Z whispered in my ear, “I wish I could give him more, but I don’t have anything.” Then, with a Eureka expression, he fished out a packet of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed them to the man, who was over the moon with the gift. I took a step back and looked at the scene: curvaceous women were pulling out all the stops to attract the Tattooed Beat Messiah’s attention; he could have had his pick of the bunch, or – if he so chose – had them all at the same time; it was more important to Z, though, to brighten up the day of a homeless man, to show him compassion and generosity, to treat him with dignity, to create personalised art just for him. It may have been the cold Glasgow wind, but my eyes welled up with tears as I understood the beauty in what I had just witnessed.

Moments before Z took off in his van with band and crew, he and I posed for more photos together, having already done a brief photoshoot backstage. Out in the street, Bruce Hotchkies - vocalist of The Deadly Romantics - was the designated photographer. After three or four snaps, Bruce announced that there was enough memory space for only one more shot, and told us to make it a good one. As Bruce pressed the camera’s shutter button, I felt something warm and wet against my neck, then realised that Z had blessed me with a spontaneous kiss. Yes, the camera captured it: me grinning; Z slurping; jealous women in the background thinking, 'How did that hairy bastard get a kiss from the Tattooed Beat Messiah?'

As Z’s van disappeared into the horizon, I headed for a pub, accompanied by the Blondie/Iggy lovechild, Bruce and Gary from The Deadly Romantics, and the brunette who had tried so hard to seduce Z. For the first time, I fully understood Carpocrates’s Assertion, which Umberto Eco paraphrased as, ‘…only by committing every act can the soul be freed of its passions and return to its original purity.’ Zodiac Mindwarp had experienced – some say written the book on – vices and debauchery, yet I had come to know him as a man of deep empathy and compassion, a beautiful soul. The Tattooed Beat Messiah had been known by myriad majestic titles over the years, but now preferred the simplicity of ‘Z’. Just a single letter. The zenith of humility. Z: sometimes less truly is more.

A few weeks ago, I received a drunken text from my friend Pete late one Saturday night. From what I could decipher, he was inviting me to see The Poets playing live. At first, I thought this must be one of Pete's magic-mushroom-induced fantasies. The Poets were a staple of the Glasgow music scene of the '60s. Their name - legend around these parts - is whispered with reverence. The local impact of The Poets was vast, yet worldwide fame eluded them. Or perhaps they eluded it: case in point - one New Year's Eve (or Hogmanay, as it's known here in Scotland) in the mid '60s, The Poets, who had a few singles under their belts by then, were invited to perform live on a nationally syndicated US TV show. This was a chance for the band to catapult itself from British fame to worldwide success. So did the intrepid Scots jump at the chance to appear on coast-to-coast US TV? No. Their reason? They didn't want to miss a Hogmanay of hard drinking in their homeland, so they boarded a plane for Scotland, leaving a host of American TV executives dumbfounded. This unflinching Scottishness endeared The Poets to their fan base at home; they were ours. Unlike other British bands The Who, The Rolling Stones and The Beatles, who were willing to drop their homeland like a hot potato in order to make an impression stateside, The Poets' hearts remained rooted in Scotland. Staying in the country they loved was integral to the band's creativity, but it did limit their commercial potential. As frontman George Gallacher said, "We never made a bad artistic decision. And we never made a good business decision. But hey-ho, that's the freak beat!"

So on a rainy Saturday night in November 2011, I sat staring at my phone and thinking, Pete must be on a mind trip. It can't be The Poets. They haven't played together in over four decades. I sent Pete a text asking: (a) what psychoactive substances he had ingested in the last few hours; (b) if he was referring to The Poets of '60s legend, the same band who - despite having been and gone by the time Pete and I were born - made waves in the Glasgow music scene that continue to ripple to this day. A few minutes passed, then a buzz announced Pete's reply. Just booze! And aye, it's the same Poets. I'm friends with the singer George, who told me that the band is playing a one-off gig in Glasgow. Even before the gig was announced, all the tickets were accounted for, but I managed to wangle you one. You, me and The Poets, baby! As this sank in, I felt as if I'd been transported back in time to the '60s heyday of The Poets. Literary and music critic Brian Morton once said in a TV documentary, "Unlike all others of the 500 bands in Glasgow at the time, whom people went to dance to, one went to a Poets gig to listen." It was no accident that my friend Robert Fields - a luminary of the Scottish music scene who has been musician, promoter, DJ, manager, club owner and, most recently, author - called his book Minstrels, Poets and Vagabonds: A History of Rock Music in Glasgow. Robert makes a good case for The Poets kick-starting the Scottish rock scene with their incendiary live performances and unique singles. While reading Robert's book, I'd been overcome by a strange sense of nostalgia that predated my birth; I wished I could go back in time to witness The Poets crafting musical legend out of thin air and raw talent. Now, in 2011, that wish was about to come true.

Pete is famous infamous in the west-of-Scotland music scene for his musical talent ability to drink inhuman amounts of alcohol and still play a blinding note-perfect performance. As a child, he was classically trained in clarinet. Then he took up alto sax. Subsequent leanings into ambient electronica led to him buying synths and keyboards, and mastering those instruments with ease. By the time he reached his mid 20s, his eclectic talents had graced orchestras, jazz bands, funk bands, dance bands, rock bands and metal bands. No one from any of those musical outfits ever had anything other than praise for Pete's prodigious abilities or his lovability as a human being. In the music business, that's rare indeed. When the aforementioned Robert Fields was managing a funk-metal band called Dr Pop (with whom Pete was sax player), he organised a gig for the band at London's world-famous Marquee club. Much to Robert's dismay, Pete was nowhere to be found while the rest of the band soundchecked. Moments before Dr Pop hit the stage for their main performance, in staggered Pete...drunker than Keith Richards on a whisky-tasting holiday. Robert erupted. This was the band's biggest gig to date, and the brass section was bladdered! Nonetheless, Pete strapped on his sax, weaved his way onto the stage, propped himself up against an amp, then blew everyone's minds with a barnstorming performance. Having heard the Robert Fields version of events, I asked Pete for his side of the story. He explained, "The other cats in the band warmed up by soundchecking. I warmed up by drinking twelve pints in the pub next door. Same goal, different methods of getting there!" A few months later, during a gig at Bell College, a seriously inebriated Pete spotted me in the front row of the audience. To any other sax player, jumping off a six-foot stage into the crowd while playing a solo might not seem like a wise idea. Not Pete, though. With a short run-up, he launched himself off the front of the stage, pedalling his legs through the air as he descended towards me. He landed bang on target, knocking me (and several others) over like skittles. Somehow, Pete managed not to drop a note. After that night (and a ban from playing Bell College ever again), Pete vowed never to perform drunk, a vow that went on to prove true the words of Scotland's best-known poet, Robert Burns, who quarter of a millennium earlier wrote, 'The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley.'

I became increasingly excited at the prospect of seeing The Poets. The night before the gig, Pete sent me an e-mail which said, "It might be a good idea to tone down your metalness tomorrow. There will be mods present." Mods? Rockers' old rivals? I didn't think they still existed; hadn't seen one in years. When I was growing up, the rivalry between mods and rockers was brutal. Unlike current-day musical battles, in which tweeted attacks float back and forth in the safety of a virtual environment, mods and rockers used to whack each other over the heads with very real lumps of wood (affectionately known in Scotland as chibs). While the much-publicised rivalry between snot-nosed punks and metalheads was essentially a media-constructed fiction, the animosity between mods and metallists was real, visceral and emotionally charged. Punk and metal were brothers from the same tribe, but mods were the invading enemy who came to burn down our homes and desecrate our families. While queuing outside the Glasgow Apollo for my first Iron Maiden gig, aged 11, I witnessed two mods riding Lambretta scooters down the road next to the venue. When the scooters stopped at a red light, the crowd of denim-and-leather-clad Maiden fans surged into the road, beating the mods to a pulp and stamping their bikes into scrap metal. This was a traumatic event to witness as an eleven-year-old, but it was a lesson; I learned that mods and rockers were enemies. I hadn't the first clue why we couldn't get along, but I decided it would be pragmatic to accept this as fact. In the years that followed, I had to run for my life several times when chased by gangs of weapon-wielding mods in my native East Kilbride. As I grew larger, hairier and stronger, the urge to run from marauding mods faded. I was ready to stand my ground in order to defend my heavy metal faith. Side by side with my fearless compadre DT (whose fighting skills were pure art), I fought many a battle. That, however, is another story...

In the '80s, attending a mod gig dressed in metal garb would guarantee you - at the very least - a serious kicking. But The Poets were around long before the term mod was applied to music. True, The Poets' fashion sensibilities and musical style influenced the mod movement, but the band's active years were earlier, during the era of free love and psychedelic drugs for all. Would this loophole guarantee a metallist an easy ride at a 2011 Poets gig? Would it be peace and love or chibs at dawn? There was only one way to find out!

Pete and I agreed to meet in his favourite Glasgow pub on gig night. I ignored his advice about demetallising myself for the event. Instead, as an anthropological experiment, I went metalled up to the hilt: trusty old motorcycle boots, oil-stained jeans, Judas Priest British Steel belt buckle, metal T-shirt and battle-scarred 20-year-old biker jacket. When I walked into the pub, Pete shook his head. "Holy shit," he quipped, "so much for going incognito. You might as well have worn your horned Viking helmet, bullet belt and Blackie Lawless's buzz-saw codpiece." Smiling, I replied, "I would have, but those items could be construed as offensive weapons, and I don't want to miss the gig due to being arrested and flung in a cell for the night." Pete's expression turned serious. "George is a legend," he grunted. "Do not disrespect him by turning his gig into a bar-room brawl." I replied, "Relax, Pete. Fighting's the last thing on my mind. Even when we were in our teens, I never started fights." Glowering, Pete said, "You never started fights, but you finished them. We'll have none o' that behaviour tonight, no matter what!" Enjoying my friend's discomfort, I posed the hypothetical question, "What if I'm attacked by a group o' feral mods intent on ripping me to pieces? You can't expect me not to lay them oot!" Exasperated, Pete spat, "No fighting, I said! If anything kicks off, get oot o' there. Don't disrespect George. This night's aboot peace and love, cat."

As we left the pub, the night's perpetual rain intensified into a deluge that was wild even by Scottish standards. I broke into a run, hoping to avoid a total drenching. The inebriated Pete staggered along at my back, flinging curses at the apocalyptic weather. We soon arrived at the venue, a cafe-bar called Stereo in Glasgow's Renfield Lane. Stereo is housed in a building designed by the city's most famous architect, Charles Rennie Mackintosh. On a sunny day, I'd have stood outside to admire the structure's telltale Mackintosh lines and aesthetics. Not on this night, though. Eager to escape the wind-driven rain that whipped our faces and soaked our clothes, Pete and I rushed inside. To my surprise, the concert wasn't taking place on the ground floor or a higher one, but three floors below street level, in a subterranean concrete cavern. Strange silvery pipes snaked illogical paths up the walls and through holes in the ceiling, imbuing the cubic cave with a '60s-sci-fi-movie ambience. And yes, there were mods. Everywhere. A wall-to-wall modfest. The males weren't the parka-wearing, Lambretta-riding mods I remembered from my childhood, the vicious bastards with whom I had many a scrap; these were the original mods, dressed in sharp suits, ties and pointed-toed winklepicker shoes. Their haircuts and sideburns were also of the '60s: a mass of straight lines and right angles. From a geometric perspective, I found these odd beings impressive. Not nearly as impressive as the mod women, though. Pete and I stood amid a sea of modelesque modettes in mini-dresses and knee-length boots. Most of them wore their hair in shoulder-length bobs, but some had opted for the summer-of-love style of a waist-length mane adorned by flowers or esoteric jewellery. Perhaps most surprisingly of all, every single one had pert breasts, whether 18 or 70. I turned to Pete and asked, "Have you noticed that every woman in here, regardless of age, has perky tits?" My friend smiled at me and replied, "Actually, I had noticed that. Amazing, eh?" Mirroring his smile, I observed, "At metal gigs, titties come in all shapes and sizes, some boldly defying gravity while others point groundwards like the Hindenburg on the cover of Led Zeppelin's debut album. But these cheeky mod breasts in here refuse to even acknowledge gravity's existence. What do you think's going on there?" Pete scratched his chin, affecting a pose like Rodin's Thinker. After a pregnant pause, he replied, "I reckon it's a special mod bra. These bras must reorganise their contents into a very specific configuration. What we see before us are the fruits of these bras' efforts." Unconvinced by Pete's explanation, I put forward an alternative theory. "I don't buy your bra story. I think there's some kind of mod magic at work. That might sound crazy, but you can't rule it impossible. I mean, think about the myriad ways that music can affect people: it can radically alter mood; a single melody can cause an instantaneous flashback to a time and place decades past; music can inspire; it can annihilate inhibitions; as you know, certain sounds and frequencies - known as the Sounds of Power - can levitate physical objects, neutralising the effect of gravity. The ancient Egyptians knew this. Some folk think these Sounds of Power were used to move the pyramids' massive stone blocks into position with absolute precision. So, I ask you, is it outwith the realms of possibility that mod bands rediscovered these Sounds of Power and incorporated them into their music? Modettes have soaked up these magical sounds and, as a result, have spectacularly perky paps which are oblivious to gravity." Shaking his head, Pete asked, "How is it possible that I'm the drunk one and you're stone-cold sober, yet you came up with that preposterous theory? Maybe you should seek funding to research the subject. You could write a book on it! Mod Women and Their Perky Tits: A Scientific Study."

The violence that had been deemed a possibility never kicked off. Quite the opposite, in fact. A couple of sharp-suited mods, after giving me the once-over, smiled and patted my shoulders, an action which I interpreted as, we respect you for opening your mind and coming here to enjoy a different sonic brew. Several other male mods nodded at me, indicating their approval.

When The Poets hit the stage, the modettes began to dance, swirling and gyrating, lost in waves of psychedelic sound. As the women moved, their hair captured variegated colours from overhead stage lights. Mod magic. One wild-haired comely blonde rubbed her mini-skirted bottom against my thigh. I noticed that her hair smelled like salt 'n' vinegar crisps (make that 'chips' if you're American). Not only did she look delicious, she smelled it too! More mod magic. I wrote off the brushing of beautiful buttocks against oil-stained thigh as an accident of dance, and so did nothing to dissuade the salty-scented goddess from continuing her hypnotic movements. She pirouetted and leapt, tossing her hair as she glided through the air, a perfect fusion of athleticism and joy. Then she floated backwards once again and - very deliberately this time - rubbed her posterior up and down my leg. I glanced over at Pete, whose eyes widened upon seeing what was happening. The dancer became more brazen, grinding her bottom into my crotch. In the interests of peace, love and mod/metal relations, I didn't object. Pete's eyes, meanwhile, looked ready to pop out of his head. After a couple of minutes, the modette moved away and resumed her delicate balletic movements. I flashed a smile at Pete. "Don't flatter yourself," he shouted into my ear. "She probably had an itchy arse and - since you're the roughest-lookin' thing in here - decided to scratch it on you." We both laughed so hard that tears rolled down our cheeks. While The Poets scorched through all their singles, B-sides and a couple of cover versions, the blonde minx alternated between flamelike ballet movements in open space and animalistic grinding against me. Each time she drew close, a waft of salt 'n' vinegar infiltrated my nostrils. It had been nearly twelve hours since I'd eaten, so my hunger grew with every sniff. A well-fed me might have given the flirtatious ballerina's bottom the attention it seemed to be craving, but the ravenous me wanted only to devour the biggest bag of salt 'n' vinegar crisps in the known Universe. At the gig's end, as a courtesy (it would have been rude not to), I gave the modette's bottom a single smack, after which Pete and I ascended from the depths and popped out onto the rainy streets of Glasgow. I drove us at breakneck speed a law-abiding velocity to a 24-hour Asda supermarket, where we stocked up on snacks before heading back to my house to feast.

It was an honour to witness The Poets playing live. George Gallacher and Fraser Watson were as energetic onstage as they had been in their '60s heyday. The aura of peace and love in that dark subterranean cavern was truly special. And - contrary to all my expectations - I had felt like a warmly welcomed part of a scene that once bred rockers' enemies. If you're unfamiliar with the violent rivalry between UK mods and rockers in the '70s and '80s, check out the movie Quadrophenia, which is a pretty accurate representation of that time. I'm happy to announce that those times are past. My anthropological experiment revealed that mods and rockers can co-exist in the spirit of peace, love, mutual respect and mini-skirted ballerina seductresses with hair that smells like snacks.

And guess what? Since that Poets gig, my tits have never been perkier!