Rock and Roll Animals

The Children of the Grave blurted out of the stereogram through the family lounge.

Not too loud, Sabbath's dirge swept over the boy like an avalanche of glee and he was transfixed.

His black hair, long and a piece of carpet sewed into his flared Wranglers, the 13 year old was keen as mustard, but still a simple novice in the world of heavy metal.

He had no idea how to play his Telecaster copy his Mum had bought him cheap from Grattan's catalogue.

Even the ubiquitous riff of Smoke on the Water proved tricky for his soft fleshy fingertips.

But his beating heart was in the right place and his albums were proof if anyone doubted it.

All of Budgie's stuff right up until Waive the Rules, including the first rare eponymous LP with Guts, the heaviest track ever put on vinyl. 

There was all of Rush's stuff too, up until Farewell to Kings and their descent into commercial shite.

Skynyrd, Montrose, Humble Pie, Free,  Cream, Purple, Zep and of course Sabbath.

Some Prog had crept in too. Yes mainly. His older Sister has played him the Yes Album, Yours is no Disgrace the boy's favourite

But he still couldn't play his damn guitar.

Not like Ziggy, his earliest rock hero. 

No Weird and Gilley for him.

He needed some stringing along. Some guiding hands. Some fretting over his pick-ups or else he would stay forever Fumbles, the fuckin nickname he'd got at school when he'd took his guitar in. 

Such a huge bastard mistake.

All those morons had laughed.

They chastised him in the hall.

Stick to Bowie you big cream puff!

What did they know. 

He had all the albums. What the fuck did they have? Elton fuckin John!

Only one boy hadn't laughed. 

Schmeck.

A Czech.

From Czechoslovakia or somewhere east.

Two years older, he approached the boy, who's head was sunk low beside his FAL amp.

Hey, What's up Man?

The boy looked up.

Not much. 'Cept that amp should say FAIL, not fuckin FAL.

Schmeck sat on the amp. He spoke with a Eastern European accent, which made him sound exotic in an otherwise monotone and tedious Lancastrian school.

Fuck em! Fuck em all! Fuck Fumbles!

The boy stared at him. 

He'd never really noticed this fourth year before. But why would he, just a pipsqueak in the second.

'Ere, give me your guitar mate.

Schmeck got hold of the cheap Telecaster and began to play.

And Jeez, could he play! 

Holy shit! You're fuckin brilliant mate! 

Not really, I just learnt the basics and took it from there.

What did you start off with? Smoke on the Water?

Fuck that mate! No, I began with Quo. Anything off Dog of Two Head. My older bro showed me.

Never heard Dog.

It's fuckin mighty man. We love Dog. Listen, here's Something Going on my Head.

Schmeck smacked out this superb tune with finesse and verve. The boy was stunned.

Wow! I mean just soft mate! You really can strum!

Tell you what, I'll bring Quo's album in tomorrow. You can borrow it.

Thanks mate.

The boy played Dog till the grooves ran hot. He couldn't get enough of Quo's catchy riffing and commenced in earnest to learn the chords. 

A week later he had given it his all and returned the LP.

Cheers Schmeck, that's the dog's bollocks that!

The two new friends, separated by age and geography, sat and talked heavy rock every break and dinner from that day on. 

The boy even spoke of his love of Bowie and Lou Reed and the brill guitarin' on some LP's like David Live and Rock 'n' Roll Animal.

Schmeck had never heard of them and was genuinely impressed with the younger boy's breadth of knowledge and even more with his big album collection.

He grunted his admiration. 

The boy explained that his folks had a few bob and he got records for his birthday and Christmas and went up town every fortnight to get another.

Schmeck stared at this young acolyte.

Tell you what matey, why don't I bring my older brother Gorgo and his mates Bertalan and Lupe round to yours for a jam. You've learnt a few licks. We can teach you some more. They're nice fellas and can't half play. Fifth years. Leaving in Summer. If you're parents don't mind then waddaya reckon?

Yeah sure, I'll ask my Mum and Dad mate.

As long they stay in the lounge and it's not too loud for the neighbours son, it's not a problem. Oh and obviously they can use the loo. I'll pop in a couple of times though and check you're OK with these older boys. 

Oh Mum!

That's the way it is son. OK?

Yep, sure, whatever man!

Hey, save your rocker lip for your friends you little rascal! 

No probs Mum!

They both laughed and the date was set for the following Saturday after the cartoons on the telly. The boy adored them, especially Shazzan, the Arabian Knights and Danger Island, after which he'd always shout Ah Oh Chongo throughout the house.

Saturday came and the gang arrived with their guitars and amps.

They looked like a bunch of hairy gorillas as they trudged into the big lounge holding chunky cases and little Marshalls.

The boy was nervous as fuck and could hardly speak.

Hey fella!

Yeah, hey man.

What's goin' on matey. 

The boy stared at them, covered from head to toe in denims, and decided they were Gods there and then. This was Mount Olympus for guitars and he was lucky enough to be just passing through.

In a cracked voice he managed to squeak.

How's tricks guys? 

All good brother. Good to get some new blood.

Gorgo smiled and nodded.

Schmeck winked at the boy and they began to jam some Dog of Two Head.

Gerdundula, Umleitung, Somethings Going on, the lot.

It was absolutely fuckin ace.

With their long finger nails, they showed him some new riffs and techniques, handy chord changes and a bit of picking too.

The boy's Mum knocked and walked in with a tray of glasses filled with Pepsi and a plate of arrowroot biscuits.

Hey thanks Missus!

They sort of gurgled. In unison.

She looked them over and gave them a nod.

No worries boys. Help yourselves.

The Mum backed out and Dad collared her.

How do they look then these fifth years?

Well, they've got an accent like Bela Lugosi, but they seem harmless enough. Quite sweet really in a sweaty grizzly kind of way. They're a bit thin I must say. Hungry looking.  I might make them some beef paste butties. Our boy looks happy though.

Ah, that's good. It's great to see him making new pals.

The jamming continued and they all tried Anthem by Rush, which proved to be way too hard for the youngster but not them. 

By Tor and the Snow Dog came on and the visitors sat back with their pepsis and listened intently, as if they revered it like a hymn.

You guys OK?

Just fuckin listen man. We fuckin adore that snow dog, OK!

Yeah, sure thing mate.

The boy thought they all looked a bit strange after that. 

Different somehow. 

The Schmeckster tells us you've got some heavy stuff on a couple of Bowie and Lou Reed records?

Yeah, I have.

Stick it on then bro. We love fresh meat.

The boy first played Big Brother on David Live, which they practised riffin' to and then he put Intro on at the start of Reed's Rock 'n' Roll animal.

They just stared at each other and then at the boy.

For fucks sake this is so fuckin' good man! We've never heard it before. Fuckin' mighty!

The boy hoped his Mum wouldn't walk in and hear them effin and jeffin. A good Catholic, she'd stop them coming again for sure.

The riff of Sweet Jane seemed to send them into convulsions, as they played along to the driving electric groove.

As it reached it's explosive climax the older boys seemed hairier. 

They were grunting too as they strummed wildly to the licks.

Schmeck looked up and his face was covered in fur.

He snarled at the boy.

Hey, fuckin' Fumbles!

The boy flinched.

What the fuck Schmeck! You're a fuckin werewolf! Mu.......

Before he could shout his Mum the boys were on him.

Ten minutes later, as she approached the lounge with another tray of Pepsis and a round of meat paste butties, she felt sure she could here munching and gnashing behind the door.

She knocked and walked in.

She dropped her tray at the scene of sheer carnage before her.

Her boy was now a mere wet carcass on the carpet, his ribs stripped of all their flesh and his sweet face chewed completely away.

Two of the older boys, now entirely swathed in thick hair and growling like rabid dogs, were eating her son's tender calf muscles, whilst the younger Schmeck, completely unrecognisable under his hide, was noisily sucking the marrow from the boy's finger-bones, as if he were a mere KFC.

As the mother stared at the atrocity before her, the creatures, now fully fed, leapt up and brushed past her legs, howling as they loped.

She screamed and screamed, as the pack of enormous wolves, their jaws dripping red with her baby boy's blood, bounded through the back door and out into the feeding grounds of an unwitting suburban Preston stuffed with fumbling innocents like him.

She gripped the frame and yelled.

You fucking animals!