by Chris Harris
‘You’re not going to believe this, meet Red Lion, seven tonight.’
That was the WhatsApp message Jack Thunder, the singer, sent to the old Jack the Ripper group chat. The Ferret and Youngy tried in vain to tease out what it was all about. After thirty years, since the Ripper split, out of idle chit chat and general childishness, this was something to shake them out of their permanent doldrums, ‘not going to believe this,’ wow, what on earth could Jack mean?
All three of them, Jack, Youngy, and the Ferret, came from Denham, along with their lead guitarist, Fat Bloke Slim. Back in the ’80s and ’90s, the four of them, plus Phil Sick on drums, had been members of a slightly tasty punk metal band called Jack the Ripper.
An amateur band by very definition. Quick off the blocks with a brilliant punk demo tape ‘You’re So Plastic’. Snappy, catchy, and fun numbers before joint founder Matt Emulsion was unceremoniously booted out. For the next ten years, there followed a below par collection of longer, more sincere and reflective, less raucous, more rock than punk rock songs .
To say success passed them by would be polite. A decade of relentless rehearsals in Denham village hall proved one thing above all, there was something missing, and it was not a minor cog, it was talent. They scraped together small crowds in Sussex pubs, support acts in Brighton and London venues, but never more than that. The audience always notably dwindling during their set. By the end even the once faithful Denham Red Lion crowd couldn’t be bothered to turn up. By the mid ’90s, with the Ferret’s hearing starting to give out, the band quietly folded. RIP Denham’s finest. Lead guitarist, Fat Bloke Slim felt they were misunderstood and underappreciated, a feeling not felt by the other band members and anybody who saw them.
That, at least, was the official story. In truth, a rift had been brewing. Fat Bloke Slim wanted to take the music ‘seriously’ and start writing even more moodier and melancholic numbers. The others wanted the opposite, ditch the ‘80s heavy metal influence, crank up the speed, and become a proper punk band again. It all came to a head one night, during what must have been their thousandth rehearsal at the village hall.
Fat Bloke Slim stopped mid crap solo, pulled the plug on his Marshall amp and declared, ‘I’ve got the fucking hump with you lot.’ He packed his gear and stormed out. Jack just pissed himself laughing, expecting him back in a few minutes, ‘another baby tantrum’ he decreed. Phil Sick, on drums, was too stoned to care, Youngy, rhythm guitar, looked close to tears, and the Ferret, and his accompanying trademark two string bass, seemed unmoved. Slim, though, had been the de facto leader of the band. He wrote nearly all the songs. Without him, the Ripper simply collapsed.
Slim was, to be fair, a decent guitarist and songwriter, but as everyone said, if you nipped to the toilet mid set and came back during one of his solos, you could never tell what song he was playing. The solos all sounded exactly the same.
Youngy had his own problem. He was actually a really good guitarist, but his slight frame meant he was practically shoulderless, which presented obvious problems when you do the physics. Heavy guitar, strap and no shoulders, meant he was more intent on juggling his strap through shoulder spasms, during gigs, to stop it descending to his knees than on playing. He had to sit and strum away during band practices. He’d always dreamed of saving up for a prosthetic shoulder, but by the time his career got underway, and he could afford one, the Ripper were finished.
The Ferret, meanwhile, was talentless by any conventional measure. He was notorious in the local scene for playing with only two strings, why bother with more? But what he lacked in skill he made up for in speed. The sheer wall of noise he produced at thunderous pace managed, in its own way, to disguise the shortcomings of everyone else. At full tilt he could almost drown out Jack’s flat notes and distract from Sick forgetting entire choruses.
Phil Sick? Always stoned. Always paranoid. Always late. He garnered his nickname through his performance in the pub. Let’s face it, most of the theatre around Jack the Ripper was about the friendship. During various drinking sessions, Sick, only 15 when he joined the band, soon worked out he couldn’t smoke weed and keep up the rounds with his bandmates, religiously, after half an hour the slurring would begin. ‘Sorry guys, I’m phheeling sick,’ before legging it to the toilets. Hence Phil Sick.
Phil Sick and Fat Bloke Slim had moved away from Denham and the other three got on with their lives, keeping in regular touch. It was difficult not to as Jack seemed to have spent his whole career either working in The Red Lion or The Millenium, a jack of all trades, cheffing, cleaning, bar work and sometimes management. He occasionally fronted a Bad Manners tribute band. Lip Up Fatty.
Youngy went back to college, reinventing himself as one of the country’s leading parsnip experts, spending weekends in gyms across the county trying to build up the shoulders nature had so cruelly denied him.
The Ferret drifted into the art world, or tried to. A failed artist bailed out by his parents, he burned through their money and their patience. They’d spent a fortune on his education, only to watch him fail as a musician and then fail again as a painter, clinging stubbornly to his delusions of being an ‘artist’.
Phil Sick dropped off the radar, rumour had it holed up in various dens of iniquity with his friend Mr Marijuana. Sightings of the old boy were rare but he was sometimes seen popping back to Denham when he remembered he still had parents.
The Ferret and Youngy regularly gravitated back to whichever Denham pub Jack worked in, they enjoyed catching up, slagging off Fat Bloke Slim, laughing at their past failures and indulging many an hour patiently hearing all the updates in Youngy’s world of parsnips, often commenting how his body frame actually looked like one.
Like the band itself, the weather that day was a bit crap.
Youngy and the Ferret arrived at The Red Lion a little early, Jack wasn’t finishing his shift until 6pm, In truth, they were both apprehensive. Maybe Jack had some bad news. They were all in their fifties now, and the thought of him announcing some awful disease wasn’t far-fetched. It would have been grimly ironic, given their old song ‘Cancer’ written back when they thought it was funny to be offensive punks, long before cancer began striking down friends and family.
But when Jack finally finished his shift and joined them, grinning ear to ear, their fears were quickly put to rest.
‘I’ve only been contacted by Tommy Powerz,’ he announced.
Tommy Powerz, lead guitarist of The Voltz. Metal royalty. One of the biggest bands in the world.
It had always been Jack and the Rippers’ only real claim to fame that, back in the early ’90s, they’d once shared a stage with The Voltz. It was at a Butlins in Camber Sands, part of a tiny festival where The Voltz headlined after a couple of breakthrough singles. Jack the Ripper opened the bill, going on first to a near empty room. Kerrang! magazine’s review had been brutal: ‘The most inept band I’ve ever seen in my life.’ To be fair, the newly erected drum stage collapsed and had to be rebuilt two songs in.
They dined out on the quote and association with The Voltz for decades. Even better, Tommy Powerz, their lead guitarist, had bought one of their demo tapes that night, and told Slim he actually enjoyed their set, despite the chaos and the drum kit collapsing. Fat Bloke Slim still recounted that conversation, decades on, like a peculiar badge of honour.
Jack leaned across the table, lowering his voice. ‘Here’s the thing. I can’t even remember this, but apparently he bought our demo tape back then. He’s just been in the studio writing their new album, and one of the songs he came up with sounded just like something on our demo. He reckons it’s been stuck in his head for thirty years. And now he wants to do a cover version of it. This is massive. The only problem is, he’s lost the tape. Do any of you still have one?’
‘No’ said the Ferret. ‘But I know someone who might.’
Thoughts turned to the curmudgeon, Fat Bloke Slim.
Nobody really understood the fallout with him, they’d all been great mates for ten years, one day out of nowhere, he stormed out of the village hall and was never seen again. They’d got his number from a relative of his, but the occasional text was always the same, ‘I’ve still got the hump.’ Some people hold grudges, where Fat Bloke Slim had failed as a musician, he was clearly determined to succeed in this field.
Unbeknownst to his bandmates, Fat Bloke Slim had started taking his guitar playing and the craft of songwriting more seriously. He hadn’t told them he was fed up with the group’s lack of reputation; as the de facto leader, though he’d never admit it, he felt he deserved more sway. Fair enough, perhaps. At the end of the day it was just an amateur band, the rest of them only wanted to bash out rowdy tunes. But Slim wanted support, understanding, even validation. After ten years of churning out the same racket to dwindling audiences, he argued it was time to redevelop the music. The others didn’t see the point of changing styles just to play to yet more empty pubs. The split was inevitable, but no one could have predicted the thirty year sulk that followed.
Within a year of leaving the band, Slim had moved away and set up his own business, immediately successful, and converted his garage into a recording studio. He spent the next few years rewriting Jack the Ripper songs in his new downbeat style. He teamed up with whoever would have him, rolling out his dreary versions across East Anglia. The very songs that once crackled with speed and fury were now dull plodders, what original charm and pedigree they did have, simply gone. Few pubs welcomed them twice. This only deepened his fury with his old mates.
Slim grew bitter, lost, and more entrenched. On some level he considered reaching out, but instead he doubled down.
So there was no doubt, rebuilding a dialogue would be difficult. Diplomacy wouldn’t cut it. Cunning and guile were required. You might think Slim would be ecstatic that his songs had attracted a high profile fan after all these years. But that was the thing about him, as much as he loved adulation, he couldn’t bear the idea of his old bandmates sharing any of it.
Completely nonsensical. But then, so often is the human condition: petty, illogical, and in Slim’s case, performed with extraordinary commitment and precision.
When you’re nineteen and a bit stupid, calling your first demo tape ‘You’re So Plastic’ seemed like a good idea at the time. They were naive enough to think the tape was so good that they sent it off to record companies, none of whom even bothered to send a rejection letter. But the truth is, from memory, it really wasn’t that bad. Tommy Powerz thought it was good.
The problem was, nobody had a copy anymore. Thirty years had passed. No master tapes, just one cassette remaining, that they knew of, and Slim had it. Memories had declined and the passage of time meant they could only vaguely remember the songs.
Extracting the tape from Slim, would be key. If he thought for one moment The Voltz wanted it, he would ensure he demanded money and other various legalities. They didn’t care about the money, it was the kudos. And The Voltz were asking a favour, not a protracted negotiation. But Slim would never dream that one of his songs was suddenly in demand. Somehow they needed to get the tape through some form of subterfuge, get a copy, and let The Voltz get on with it.
High on the revelation, they drank the night away in The Red Lion and then further away at the Ferret’s place. Everything seems like a good idea when you’re drunk, and about midnight Jack fired off the message,
‘Hey, Slim, I don’t suppose you’ve got a copy of ‘You’re So Plastic?’ They all agreed it may be slightly pathetic needing Dutch courage, I mean, he was always supposed to be a friend, but one they were all slightly intimidated by.
The reply was instant. ‘Why?’ As if he were psychic. Surely he’d be asleep.
They scrambled for a cunning plan, a low grade one obviously.
‘Remember that Karen girl you used to fancy who came to our gigs? She was in The Red Lion on Saturday, said how much she liked one of those songs on our first demo, wondered if you had a copy.’
Jack the Ripper were, looks wise, very much aesthetically challenged. Ten years of gigging and not one of the five had ever managed it with a groupie, an almost meticulous lack of pulling prowess. Statistically impossible, yet somehow, they made it happen. Slim had always been soft on Karen, and let’s face it, men of a certain age are suckers.
‘You’ll have to do better than that, she’s dead,’ came the reply when they finally reconnected, on the Saturday morning. A guilty face saving pivot ensued.
‘Ha ha, just mucking around. We’ve had some interest from a very strange source.’ An almost apologetic excuse and capitulation.
‘Wankers. Useless as ever. Of course she’s not dead, but nice to know you’ve still not a brain between you.’
Blimey. He was back in his usual obnoxious form. Still, at least it was communication. That was something they could work with.
‘Well, have you got the tape?’
‘Depends what it’s for.’ Fair enough, but importantly this was the first communication from him in thirty years and it was relatively polite, they’d expected a painful, drawn out process. But over in East Anglia, Slim sensed something—something magnetic was drawing him in.
‘You know what, I’ve just thought, we’ve got a trump card.’
The others looked quizzically at the Ferret.
‘If we say Matt wants to cover Prime Time, that’s the bait.’ Matt had not intimated which song floated his boat, maybe he couldn’t remember the name of it either.
Prime Time had always been Slim’s signature tune. He had cherished it, rethought it, and rewritten it to death. While ‘You’re So Plastic’ had been a racket, Prime Time was subdued, almost melancholic, closer to the direction Slim had wanted to take the band. If one of the biggest bands in the world now wanted to cover what he always considered his best song, Slim, and his ego, would keel over in delight.
Jack mused, ‘God it’s… so sad, isn’t it? We all used to be great mates, back when we were doing all those gigs and endless rehearsals, who’d have thought we’d end up like this? Ten years playing to one man and his dog, and now, in one fell swoop, possible international recognition, and we still behave like a bunch of jerks.’
Another message came through.
‘Go on then, what’s going on?’ Slim replied.
After assuming it would take weeks of tedious diplomacy just to coax him out of hiding, they’d reeled him in without even trying.
‘Oh, are you talking to us again now then, Fat Bloke?’
‘I never wasn’t talking to you,’ came the reply. ‘Just thought we’d have a break.’
That was Slim all over, pig-headed, rewriting history as he went. The sulk now reframed as a strategic pause. Either he’d finally dropped the act, or he was just playing silly buggers, circling like a shark, waiting to reassert himself as ‘leader of the band.’ A mantel none of the others wanted anyway, and secretly hoped he’d assume, if only to make life easier.
‘Let’s have a Zoom call on Sunday.’
Of course it didn’t happen. Four men in their fifties trying to organise a Zoom call was a bridge too far. But Slim, songwriter of the moment, joined the WhatsApp group, and what a baptism of fire it was, as they told him, the news of The Voltz.
They spilled the beans.
‘The bad news is I haven’t got the tape either.’
It came as a shock. Slim had always been like a military archivist, hoarding everything: tapes, press cuttings, set lists, reviews. And yet somehow the demo had slipped through his fingers.
‘You’ve got that live tape from the Haywards Heath wine bar though, haven’t you, Ferret?’
It was a good point. Their first live recording, made just after the demo…, so there was every chance the missing songs were on it.
‘Leave it with me,’ Ferret said. ‘I’ll pop round my parents’ and go through the attic boxes. I always go Sundays anyway.’
So up he went, a trip down memory lane, sifting through battered old cassettes, a graveyard of forgotten bands. But no Plastic.
‘Gone through everything. Definitely lost.’
Youngy chipped in, ‘We sold copies at early gigs. What about social media? Old mates might still have one lying around.’
Back in the ‘80s if you went to see your mates band and they’d just recorded a demo tape, you felt obliged to buy one. It was almost compulsory, a badge of support, a quid for the cause. Then, inevitably, they were binned, well nobody ever recorded a decent one, so nobody ever listened to one… Nobody thought a scrappy cassette would one day be potentially, hypothetically, so important. I mean, a cover, number one, the royalties, the commercial opportunities, the fame, were the possibilities already going to Slim’s head, whilst playing it down to the band members.
The others saw it as a bit of a laugh and maybe a few quid, a tale to add to their exhausting back catalogue of repeated stories they never got bored of. Slim saw it as vindication for his forgotten and ignored talent. He decreed no one should know what they were up to. Subterfuge, secrecy, as if they were plotting a coup rather than chasing a lost demo. Make it look like a throwaway request.
Meanwhile, Jack updated Tommy Powerz, who was greatly amused by the futile search, but added a warning: ‘We’re in the studio in a fortnight.’ The clock was ticking. In truth Tommy was everything you would not expect him to be, friendly, down to earth and taking genuine interest in how the lives of the Ripper had evolved.
Then, out of nowhere, a blast from the past. Matt Emulsion. The original rhythm guitarist before Youngy, crawled out of the woodwork. Phew, that was a horrid splitting of ways, but against all odds, he claimed to have the tape. But he’d only hand it over to Slim.
Fat Bloke Slim agreed to meet him in Denham driving from East Anglia for what felt like a timely reunion. Matt’s sacking hadn’t been pleasant. Slim had taken clear pleasure in listing his faults at a Battle of the Bands performance, then sacking him on stage, reasoning that a bit of theatre might give the band an edge for the final result. It didn’t. Everyone else in the band had sensed things between Slim and Matt weren’t good and, being in their late teens, took the view that Slim would sort it out so they wouldn’t have to do anything. They’d all got on well with Matt, but after his expulsion he simply moved away, and they lost touch. Not the finest of moments.
It was a Wednesday in The Red Lion, Slim looked exactly the same as ever but older, his long locks greying and his chubby face thinning and sagging. He was always pragmatic when he wanted something, so a brief audience with Matt, a cross to bear but worthwhile. Hearing a list of old grievances, railing about morality and betrayal. The tape was gold dust, and with The Voltz session looming, he had no choice but to humour him and take the hit.
By 9pm, Matt was already an hour late. Then all four phones pinged at once.
‘Haha. Who’s tosser now Slim? I haven’t got your **** tape.’
On the surface it was a major blow, but deep down the former bandmates couldn’t help but respect the trap, classy, they knew it would be like a kick in the balls to Slim. Matt had played him perfectly, given how horrible he’d generally been to him, he fully deserved it. But the farce had dragged Slim out of the woodwork, and knowing his penchant for holding a grudge and getting even, they rather suspected this would not be the end of the matter.
Slim was more jolly than he usually was. Albeit perhaps because he was describing how successful he had been in life compared to his former bandmates, a case of schadenfreude potentially if they’d cared, which they didn’t. He still had that stroppy edge and needed to dominate the narrative, or maybe that was just the long absence.
With options running out, there was only one thing left to do, sit down together for the first time in decades and get drunk, hoping ideas would flow, like the beer.
As drinking sessions went, this one was thoroughly enjoyable. Despite a tetchy start, they found themselves warming more and more to Slim’s company. Reminiscing over the lows of their amateur ‘career’ in music, laughing at the disasters, and speculating wildly about what it might mean if The Voltz really did cover one of their songs. The faintly ridiculous scenario of a world famous band waiting on their lost cassette.
It felt like old times, transported back to when, younger, sharper, thinner and more hopeful, everything seemed possible. Of course, hanging over them was the nagging question: how the hell were they going to sort out the missing tape? And, if they ever did, where might it lead them?
Two weeks earlier. Aman Hotel, New York, USA.
99.99 per cent of pop/rock bands could only dream of reaching the dizzying heights of fame and fortune of iconic rockers, The Voltz. But in Monsters of Rock land, trouble was brewing. They could still fill stadiums anywhere in the world, but like the Rolling Stones, selling new records was proving harder. Their last album, Electric ShockZ, had bombed. It was the first not to hit number one in either the UK or the US.
For most bands, number 2 in both countries would have been a triumph. For The Voltz, it felt like the beginning of the end. The truth was they were tired, churning out songs for commercial reasons, not attitude and energy, too frightened to jump off the gravy train.
With the next studio session looming, the new album had become pivotal. One album missing number one might be a hiccup; two in a row would be a decline.
In the boardroom, consider the scale. Twenty-five people sitting around a conference table, the five band members, Tommy Powerz, Simon Shockz, Oli Resistanz, Micky Currentz and Paul Wattz, the band manager and management team, producer, the record company executives and studio reps, lawyers, and PR people and assorted hangers-on. Everyone could see the proverbial writing on the wall. Booked into the studio for three months, nobody thought more of the same soft punk and rock was going to cut it. They needed an edge again.
The brainstorming went nowhere, the endgame ominous.
‘For fuck’s sake guys, jobs depend on this guys.’ Trevor Crystal, head of Crystal Records emphasised with a thump of his fist on the table. They were Crystal Records’ only big band, so he was thinking in terms of his job in particular.
‘Look, think of something from the past. Something from when you first started. Something that inspired you, that made you laugh. Hell, think of a band you never wanted to be, but actually liked.’
Simon Shockz, the bassist, piped up. ‘Oh my God, remember Camber Sands? Early days, nearly forty years ago, we played that tiny festival. There was that crap band everyone took the mickey out of with that shit chubby guitarist, they were named after a mass murderer. Myra…? No, Jack the Ripper, wasn’t it?’
Tommy Powerz grinned. ‘Yes! I remember. Drum kit collapsed, dreadful solos all over the shop, the bass player only had two strings, the singer thought he was Buster Bloodvessel. They were completely awful. But do you remember that tape? Played it in the van afterwards. We all thought it was brilliant.’
‘Way ahead of it’s time to be sure’ Shockz piped in.
‘Tommy, you’re the accessible one with cred, you contact them.’ Crystal added, seeing a flicker of life in the dinosaurs.
The PR guy butted in, ‘I’ll see where they are now.’
‘Just tell them you want to cover one of their songs, but ultimately let’s try and get them into the studio with us, see if they still have the chaos and attitude we need that’ll rub off with a jammin’ session.’
As the Ripper were getting drunk in The Red Lion, 3,500 miles away in New York, top figures in the music industry sat in another plush boardroom listening intently to that very same tape, passed on by Tommy Powerz. The tape Crystal Records had just titled ‘Jack the Ripper’.
A ‘seminal classic’, they called it, nodding sagely as though they’d just discovered the Beatles.
The band had been a nightmare to source. They searched promoters, records at Butlins, Camber Sands. They had three people full-time searching, until a random gig review from Camber Sands appeared at the near foot of Google Images, where they found the crucial, dreadful review and some names and information. Then using the keywords Denham and Fat Bloke Slim. Eureka!
Everything moved at a lightning pace.
Nursing their hangovers, the following day, the Ripper were debating whether to attempt bacon sandwiches when a knock came at the door.
Standing there was a stunning young woman, grinning insincerely ear to ear.
‘Hi, I’m Beth. Diamond PR Solutions.’ She smirked, looking them up and down. ‘You must be Jack the Ripper.’
Any attempt at cool collapsed instantly. The four of them giggled like schoolboys and waved her inside.
‘I’m representing The Voltz,’ she announced. ‘It’s your lucky day. They’re in Abbey Road Studios from Saturday and they’d love a jamming session with you. You’ve got two days to sort yourselves out with some practice.’
‘But… I thought they just wanted the tape,’ Jack stammered.
‘Nope. The Voltz had a copy delivered,’ she said with a friendly smile. ‘We will send over the download if you’ve lost it.’
Beth left, feeling a little depressed at the task in hand. Hungover middle aged blokes in a messy cottage in Denham was not what she had in mind working when she decided to work in the glitz and glamour of the entertainment industry.
‘You bloody idiot Jack, did they actually ask for a copy?’
‘Well, er, no, I just assumed.’
Suddenly, they all felt like they did when the band started, naive, foolish, messing up, the old band in a nutshell, it was a poignant moment as they laughed the search for the tape away and began to fathom the enormity of the scale of what was happening.
As they closed the door to Beth, a Jiffy bag dropped out of the letter box. The Ferret recognised Matt Emulsions writing, unmistakable, from the set lists he once wrote. Inside was the tape, ‘just pulling your leg, give us a call, here’s my number.’ Something told him, despite his bad hangover and racing excitement at the mind blowing forthcoming jamming session, to not ruin Slim’s unusually good mood. A reappraisal of Emulsion with the others ensued. What a decent thing to do, and a great wind up of Slim to boot, who they all remained wary of, great fun last night, but something of the night about him. They begged and borrowed instruments and rehearsed in Denham Village Hall for two days solid. Two hours spent rehearsing ‘You’re So Plastic,’ the other 18 hours spent tediously and reluctantly plodding along with the later material, listening to Slim’s new long-winded intros and solos, which sounded like the last one. ‘How the hell did he write Plastic?’ was the general theme of conversation in The Red Lion, where Martin offered them the opportunity to do a reunion gig on the coming Saturday.
Abbey Road normally expected musical royalty. Blacked out cars lining up on Grove End Road, personal assistants with clipboards, and a small army of technicians swarming around the famous zebra crossing. Inside, The Voltz had colonised Studio Two with racks of vintage and new guitars, customised amps, racks of catered sushi.
Into this temple of rock professionalism shuffled the Rippers as the ‘Red Lion, Denham’ van pulled up outside Abbey Road Studios.
The Ferret got out first, wearing tracksuit bottoms and his curry-stained favourite Clash T-shirt, courtesy of some bad driving. He was carrying a Tesco bag full of Löwenbräus ‘just in case.’ Youngy followed, doing his shoulder exercises. Jack tripped over the pavement. Fat Bloke Slim brought the atmosphere of a man who thought he was about to be knighted. It could have been the Sex Pistols’ grandads.
Beth from Diamond PR watched the collision with a professional smile, whispering into her phone, ‘Yes, they’re exactly as expected… tragic authenticity.’
Sinisterly, The Voltz’ bodyguards suddenly stood erect. Another small van, exhaust dragging along the tarmac, approached the entrance, a door opened and like dry ice, a plume of marijuana smoke poured out, emerging from it, Phil Sick, ‘I must admit….’ But he’d lost his train of thought as the band reunited at the entrance.
The Voltz stared. Here they were, the band they’d mythologised, the underground legends, to The Voltz only, whose demo tape they’d been listening to on loop for the last two weeks. A tape that had evolved from a charitable throwaway purchase into their possible redemption, if the chemistry of the experiment was to work. Now the reality, five overweight middle aged blokes who looked like they’d wandered in from a boot sale and not picked up an instrument in thirty years, which until two days ago, four of them hadn’t.
The two bands of five shook hands and greeted each other like two groups of people who desperately needed each other, the weird dynamic being that The Voltz needed the Ripper more than the other way around.
Forty years of five people playing music at the highest level and keeping themselves fit in warmer climes saw the marvellous visual and sound juxtaposition of the oafs from Denham and the cosmopolitan rock Gods.
Ensconced in the main studio, it was massive, the Ripper froze. Embarrassed, this was all so alien, the fuss, professionals, in the production and promotion of music …and them.
‘Er… we usually start with a pint,’ Jack suggested awkwardly.
‘Beer? At 11 a.m.?’ said Simon Shockz.
‘Tradition,’ replied Youngy. ‘We’ve never done a sober rehearsal, ever.’ Which was a lie, but it sounded cool, or would have forty years ago.
Phil Sick looked stoned and embarrassed with his marijuana fuelled paranoia.
Slim just looked embarrassed—by his colleagues.
A few minutes later, five pints of cold lager arrived, and the Rippers instantly relaxed. The Ferret, who had been already tucking into the Löwenbräus, broke the ice, dithering with his strings.
The first chords were chaos. Youngy’s strap slipped, the Ferret’s right hand, now with added arthritis, struggled with the four strings, Phil Sick missed his cue entirely, and Jack came in half a verse early. Slim tutted and raised his eyebrows knowingly towards the Powerz, as if to say ‘see why I left the band’. He hadn’t read the room. The Voltz were charmed by the fiasco and ordered some pints themselves.
They quickly took a break, both groups drinking in the middle of the studio talking about bands they all loved in common, The Voltz suddenly remembering what it was like to be normal, god it was nice. Phil Sick finished his second pint, decreed he was feeling sick, and by the time he had returned from his customary vomiting duties, the Ferret had consumed enough beer to feel relaxed in this cathedral of musical history, to apologise to all and sundry and strip the bass down to the customary two strings. The assembled engineers looked aghast at such sacrilege. The Voltz just looked impressed.
Maybe the Beatles weren’t that good, maybe it was just the lay lines underneath Abbey Road, because with only twenty hours of rehearsal time in thirty years, two spent on Plastic, the Rippers played like they’d never played before.
The Voltz stared, appalled, then slowly, almost reluctantly, began to grin. Because within the racket, the mess, the pure amateurism, there was something raw and ridiculous and alive. Something they hadn’t felt in years. They were inspired, decades of bullshit, broken marriages, addictions, human mistakes by the bucket load, and here were four simple guys, and Slim, seemingly oblivious to the routine of life, just making their own noise, showing The Voltz the pathway to redemption, just getting back to basics.
‘Jesus,’ muttered Paul Wattz, picking up his bass. ‘It’s like playing with a car crash.’
‘Exactly,’ said Tommy Powerz, eyes alight. ‘It’s perfect.’
Both groups began to jam together, The Voltz finally lifting that monkey of pressure that was stifling their careers, off their backs, the Ripper’s vitality and energy was infectious.
The reason why young bands in their infancy flounder is a lack of discipline. The Rippers were being paid a large amount of money for their day’s endeavours, the best day of their lives, maybe. Only two conditions. Turn up. Jam the demo tape and some punk cover versions. It couldn’t have been handed to them on a cleaner plate.
A plate Fat Bloke Slim had decided to break. He started utilising his effect pedals and augmented the excellent racket with some ill-advised cack handed guitar artistry, his narcissism giving short shrift to the shame anyone else would feel trying to outdo two of the best-known guitarists in the world.
‘Hey, guys, this has been brilliant’ Micky said at the end of a stonking cover of New Rose, Slim’s solo and effects drowned out as The Voltz turned up their amps to 10. They wanted to go on but had hit perfection and they did not want the new vibe corrupted if Slim continued to pollute the room with his solos.
Jack and Youngy sat down for another beer with Tommy, while the Ferret explained the merits of playing with two strings on your bass to an entirely unconvinced Wattz. But clearly charmed by the explanation nonetheless.
It had been a bad day at the office for Slim, he just couldn’t help slipping his crap guitar solos in, it wasn’t his fault they were not appreciated for the art they were. Being ahead of the times was such a cumbersome burden, he reflected and went off to sulk.
As soon as he left the studio, Tommy Powerz was first off the blocks. ‘Look, guys, no offence, but Slim’s a bit of a cock,’ he said in that half joking, half reading between the lines kind of way.
‘Today’s been massive for us, you’re just amazing,’—the remaining Rippers were in shock; still half convinced they were hallucinating. ‘We’re going to talk to our management about some ideas. The others have a commitment tonight, but I hear you’re doing your first gig in thirty years. If you can keep it quiet, I’d love to guest on guitar.’
Tommy felt slightly insulted as Sick fell off his stool in stoned hysterics . ‘You’re joking, right? That would be mental.’ He smiled though, feeling a warmth and happiness he hadn’t known in years, the kind the music industry had long since stolen from him.
Jack and Youngy were already picturing it: a packed Red Lion, Jack the Ripper live with Matt Voltz guesting. FFS.
High on adrenaline, beer, and Sick’s fog of smoke, they rolled back into Denham in triumph. Slim was quiet. Not thoughtful quiet, moody quiet.
Back in the eighties, on home turf, Jack the Ripper used to pack out The Red Lion and even ran a tongue in cheek ‘World Denham Tour’, playing The George and Dragon, across the road, on Friday, The Red Lion on Saturday. Over the years, interest dwindled. Martin only booked them out of pity, after Jack had started working behind the bar.
This time, though, it was rammed and electric. Well, as electric as the crowd—mostly later middle-aged and not about to start a mosh pit—could be. But when, out of nowhere, one of the greatest rock stars on the planet stepped on stage, walking sticks and earplugs were abandoned, beers kicked over, and the place erupted, it was like 1986 all over again.
In the old days, they prayed for a lock-in to keep drinking into the night. These days, licensing laws were looser, and they drank straight through to the early hours. Geriatric partying, Tommy had an early studio session and left with a warm goodbye. Slim, less warm, decreed he was tired and flunked off to a hotel.
The Voltz had been licking their wounds after their latest flop, and this was the first time one of them had been spotted doing a grassroots pub gig. Nobody in Denham realised the significance, but the photos from The Red Lion spread fast online. Soon, questions were flying around the music press. ‘Who the hell are Jack the Ripper, and what was Matt Voltz doing playing with them?’
The record company were on it, it was a tricky situation, getting a spark and fire out of The Voltz had been a long and frustrating two years, and they were not going to let it go out. Trevor Crystal was already on a plane.
The Ripper were aroused from their fug at midday, happier, despite keeping up the tradition of failing with the now aging groupies. A rap on the door. Outside sat a big black Mercedes—no, three—lined up like an invasion of the music industry mafia. The Ferret effected a double take.
The visitor was a large, well-dressed executive. ‘Hi, I’m Trevor Crystal. Crystal Records.’ He pushed his way in, but stopped short as the fug hit him.
‘Actually, second thoughts,’ he said, turning pale. ‘Can we meet my team in that pub in the village?’ He retreated toward the fresh air, whispering under his breath, ‘God, they smell like a rotting Ripper victim.’
As he left, a refreshed Slim walked up the path, ‘Come on you muppets, it’s showtime’ delivered with a sense of magisterial importance. Only a few days back it was great reuniting as friends, but it was beginning to increasingly look like a very short lived experiment.
‘This guy has flown overnight from New York, he’s desperate, we hold all the cards’ Slim said with overstated self importance, clearly determined to run a show only his ego thought he could run.
‘What cards?’ Jack asked. A joking Captain Mainwaring ‘stupid boy’ was Slim’s retort, without the comedy or irony.
Since his return Slim had clearly been making clandestine phone calls, girlfriend troubles, apparently. Nobody believed that.
Dealing with a record company owner and the management team of The Voltz was easy, dealing with Slim was not, whose agenda was that the negotiations were to be conducted in such a way as to benefit himself and absolutely nobody but himself. Playing the meeting like a game of chess he was determined to win, as the other Ripper members sat around slightly gormlessly, not really knowing what was hitting them.
Trevor Crystal decreed a rerecorded, You’re So Plastic demo tape would be a surefire smash. He kindly described their appearances as organic and quirky and marketable. The Voltz wanted them on the British leg of their world tour. Slim could smell the lucre.
Trevor Crystal didn’t get where he was today being mugged off by the likes of Slim, but knew he had to get the ball across the line before getting things straight, but couldn’t help a passing jibe ‘Oh, just one thing, we want the same speed and vibe as the demo. Your other tapes are shit, forget the long intros, guitar solos and complicated structures. You okay with that, Slim? That’s the condition.’
Of course, Slim’s wallet, narcissism, and lust for fame meant agreement was forthcoming. He smirked as if it had been a win, but humiliation was written in his eyes.
He left the pub saying goodbye to nobody, WhatsApping later, ‘see you in the studio’.
Denham village hall this was not. Lux Studios outside Brighton gleamed with glass and chrome, a far cry from leaky roofs and peeling paint of their old haunt. For a whole week Jack the Ripper had been booked to fine tune prior to going into a recording studio.
At first, the atmosphere was fantastic, rediscovery and disbelief. The freshness and the surroundings energised them.
But then came the nit picking. Slim fed off rancour not unity. This was a show far too big for the others, Fat Bloke Slim was here, and he was determined to wreck confidence and strengthen his own claim for immortality in the process.
‘Come on, Ferret, you are going to need more than two strings on that bass if we’re moving with the times.’
The Ferret scowled. His two string thunder had been his signature, the brute force that gave the band its wall of noise. With four strings he just sounded ordinary, and Slim knew it,
‘Phil, mate, if you’re gonna take this seriously you’ve got to lay off the ganja.’
Poor old Phil Sick blinked, baffled. Weed wasn’t a habit for him, it was a rhythm section. It was his life. Without it, he was lost.
‘Youngy, you’ll need to buy that prosthetic shoulder. We need to sort that strap situation ‘cos you look like a freak.’
‘Jack, you’ve got to actually sing in tune. Less ranting.’ Jack tried. He failed. The shouting was all he had.
And then Slim. Slim went back to his hotel every night with his classical guitar, returning the next day with long, dreary, ‘serious’ songs. Love songs. Solos that went nowhere. Lyrics that made the Ferret want to reach for the nearest ashtray to lob at him.
On the Wednesday afternoon, he presented his pièce de résistance. A ballad.
‘You can **** right off if you think I’m playing that,’ snarled the Ferret. Slim froze, alarm bells went off, dissent, all of a sudden the self appointed captain was lost at sea.
‘What is your problem? We have been given an opportunity we would only have dreamed of when we were younger. So many people have done so much for us this past week, and you’re ruining it for everybody. Nobody wants to hear your crap solos, your morose openings, or those trite melodic flourishes. We’re here to rehearse “You’re So Plastic” and then record an album – it couldn’t be any simpler. What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you have to dominate and ruin everything?’
The rest of the band looked dumbfounded. For 40 years none of them had ever stood up to Slim.
‘Fuck you lot. I’ve got the hump again.’
Slim slammed down his guitar, storming out the door. ’Sort yourself out, Ferret, or you’re out. 9 a.m. prompt tomorrow, all of you.’
‘What the hell was that?’ Youngy remarked, as the Ferret packed his gear away.
‘Worry not, my friends, just trust me with this. Get here for 8 a.m. on the dot’—which all sounded grand and authoritative, commensurate with the gravitas of the moment—but as he was driving them all in the Red Lion van, he changed it: ‘Okay, my house, 7.30 a.m.’
It was something Trevor Crystal said to him in a stolen moment on the Sunday, it seemed cryptic, but the Ferret had worked out why Trevor was filthy rich and he wasn’t.
‘Get back to the beginning guys, talk to the other guy who played on the tape.’ Then Ferret remembered the phone number that only a few days ago came through his letterbox with the tape and gave him a call.
The Ferret would never have exploded like that, risking a chance of a lifetime, but by exploding like that he was saving and furthermore enhancing that chance in a lifetime.
The thing with the disposal of Matt Emulsion was that it was entirely Slim’s decision, the sacking on the stage nobody saw coming. Nobody actually wanted. There was palpable tension between Slim and Matt Emulsion. When he left the band, the tension and unpleasantness went with him. For the rest of the band, in their late teens, having emotionally difficult and grown-up matters dealt with by somebody else was, in a rather fantastic way, just perfect.
That evening, in Lewes, the Ferret met Matt Emulsion.
It was not presented as a grievance, Just a matter of fact history. Technically it was pretty easy.
‘OK Fezza, you know how when I was in the band we did lots of two minute punk songs that are actually really good and after that the music was heavily softened, the songs twice as long, more rock, less punk rock, that is because I actually wrote the first tape, Slim did some lyrics, but I wrote the songs.’ He pulled out some reams of paper with the clear evidence of his own endeavours creating ‘You’re So Plastic’.
‘I remember spending an evening with Slim coming out with all of this stuff before we presented it to you but I wrote it all. Let’s face it I was chucked out the band because the four of us wanted to do punk but Slim had grabbed the steering wheel and I was thrown out the side door. Let’s be honest, he’s got the fattest ego I’ve ever known, and is a very average musician. I’d met Grace by then and we both decided the band wasn’t worth the aggro. Slim won, but I knew time would tell and he’d get found out.’
Slim arrived late at the studio the next day. His solicitor had driven over from Suffolk so Slim could sign papers gaining control of the Jack the Ripper name, trademark, business and domain. He’d got it all sewn up, get this bloody punk album out and use the publicity to create a platform for exactly the band he wanted. He was fired up to read the riot act, threats of sackings.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he exclaimed, seeing Matt Emulsion standing in his place in the studio.
‘Slim, so nice to see you too, looking very old as well. By the way you’re out the band, you’re sacked mate.’ Grace filmed it, that moment of revenge. Slim was unmoved, then the smug grin came over his face.
‘I really don’t think so somehow, and your timing shows what an industrial muppet you were, are and always will be. I’ve signed everything up in my name so you Mr Emulsion can take a running jump.’
Matt had waited forty years for this. ‘You really are a thoroughly dim man aren’t you, lost in your world of narcissism, bullying, delusion and spite. Paraded in front of you is a new band. Jack and his Rippers. This is the 2020s you can’t possibly call a band Jack the Ripper you stupid idiot. Well done on winning the name of something that nobody wanted, no, really well done. Crystal Record’s lawyers have validated my claim as the writer of the tape.’
Slim stormed off. Matt launched into ‘Acid Bath’ and for the Ferret, Sick, Youngy and Jack, the realisation that Matt had been the key and how forty years had been wasted was wiped away by the filth and the fury coming out of the speakers. Better late than never.
The album was a cult success, and The Voltz were good to their word, Jack and the Rippers performed in 8 UK stadiums. As they thrashed away to an appreciative Wembley stadium, Fat Bloke Slim, was in the Dog and Duck in Woodbridge on stage with his rock band Jack the Ripper. A feeling of déjà vu swept through him; he’d hoped the connection to the band currently supporting The Voltz would bring a crowd in. Normally, the original Jack the Ripper would clear half a room during the set. As his new line upset up, Slim counted 24 people. By the time they were ready and completed the sound check, there were 4.
Slim reflected that he’d managed to clear a room, this time, before even starting. That was a new record. But one day someone would realise his genius. He was sure of that.
The real Jack the Ripper band are alive and well, currently enjoying a 29 year hiatus waiting to be discovered.
The current line and cast for this unreliable memoir is –
Vocals. Jack Thunder (Jack Thunder)
Lead Guitar. Andrew Simmonds (Fat Bloke Slim)
Rhythm Guitar. James Young (Youngy)
Bass, Chris Harris, the author (The Ferret)
Drums, Mark Scott ( Phil Sick)
Matt Emulsion and The Voltz are fictional.
The Rights of Fans. 