From out of the Wild West, gun on his hip, song on his lips, returns a historic hero of the silver screen in brand new stories. THE ADVENTURES OF THE BRONZE BUCKAROO is now available in print and idigtal formats from Pro Se Productions.

Portrayed by singer/actor Herb Jeffries, The Bronze Buckaroo, Bob Blake, appeared on screens in 1939 as the first African American singing cowboy. Cast in the mold of Gene Autry and Roy Rogers, The Buckaroos’ films had one major difference. They sported largely African American casts and were produced by African American companies. With four films usually listed as the Buckaroo’s legacy, this truly great moment in cinema history has been largely forgotten, except for film experts and fans of great stories. THE ADVENTURES OF THE BRONZE BUCKAROO features 51X5bNcLBaLMichael Gonzales, Robert J. Randisi, John Lutz, Gary Phillips, Christopher Alan Chambers, Frankie Y. Bailey, and Percy Spurlark Parker, each giving their own take on the most unique Singing Cowboy to ever ride into a theater! Load your sixguns, saddle up, and get ready to charge into two fisted matinee movie action with THE ADVENTURES OF THE BRONZE BUCKAROO!

With a rip roaring cover and logo design by Jeffrey Hayes and print formatting by Marzia Marina and Antonino Lo Iacono, THE ADVENTURES OF THE BRONZE BUCKAROO is available now at Amazon and Pro Se’s own store for 11.99.

This unique anthology celebrating one of Hollywood’s best kept secrets is also available as an Ebook, designed and formatted by Lo Iacono and Marina for only $2.99 for the Kindle at Amazon  The book is also available on Kindle Unlimited, which means Kindle Unlimited Members can read for free.



Short Story in a Song—“Price Tag” by S.W. Lauden

I’ve always enjoyed a dose of anti-consumerism with my pop culture, whether it’s Fight Club, George Carlin’s “Stuff” routine or Mr. Robot. The darkest and most demented lines from Idiocracy still bring a smile to my face (even as I type this on my MacBook at the local Starbucks). The same goes for songs like “Lost in the Supermarket” by The Clash, “Royals” by Lorde, “Pay To Cum” by Bad Brains and “Bitter Sweet Symphony” by The Verve. When it comes to grappling with consumer culture, “Price Tags” by Sleater-Kinney is a favorite of mine. It would make a great short story.

Our protagonist is a 9-to-5’er with mouths to feed and bills to pay. Miserably stocking shelves for minimum wage, she wonders if people like her will ever pull themselves out of this discount spiral. Everyday is Black Friday now, with working class families battling for basement “bargains” that they can’t afford and probably don’t need. She questions the hidden costs of all those cheap choices and knows it’s time for a reckoning. Maybe she’ll be the one to finally trade in her rewards card for a pitchfork and a torch.

Previous Short Stories in a Song:

The Obituaries” by The Menzingers

“Ever Fallen In Love” by Buzzcocks

S.W. Lauden is the author of the Greg Salem punk rock P.I. series includes BAD CITIZEN CORPORATIONGRIZZLY SEASON and HANG TIME (Rare Bird Books). He is also the co-host of the Writer Types podcast. Steve lives in LA.


Review: Christmas Stockings by Paul Heatley

christmas stockingChris owns a dive bar and as such he is regularly drowning in the flotsam and jetsam of life. Even on Christmas Eve, when his customers include a drunken Santa Clause and Chris’ friend Randy – a perennial disaster waiting to happen.

Paul Heatley’s Christmas Stockings is a violent torch-song. Like a bittersweet blend of early Tom Waits and Jim Thompson, it’s a cracker!

Poetry: Soot in the Window by Ryan Quinn Flanagan


Soot in the Window


Do you remember your last love?

I know of soot in the window like gangly stockinged legs

peering down upon the avenues.

Blowing failed smoke rings into the stratosphere.


Do you get naked in change rooms?

The mirrors are there to judge you because

the church couldn’t make it.

Those loud plastic hangers that seem to jostle

against everything.


Do you stand on the corner feeling most awkward?

Wondering how painted street walkers pull it off

with such ease.

The beeping sound the lights make so the city

can pretend it cares about the blind.


People with dandruff are too eager to share.

I sit with them on the bus and lumber down the road sideways.

Pretending to read the advertisements and all

their stupid phone numbers.


I wish I was desperate.

Then it would show I cared.

I am glad I am not in Europe

or we’d all be waiters.


Taking orders for the apocalypse

when it isn’t even on the menu.

Bio: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Punk Noir Magazine, In Between Hangovers, Gutter Eloquence, The Dope Fiend Daily, and The Rye Whiskey Review.

Fiction: Household Names by Paul Matts


‘You there yet?’ Daniel’s voice is coming through clearly on my new Nokia mobile phone.

‘Not yet mate. Just met Kush in McDonalds.’

‘Thought he couldn’t make it.’

‘Turns out he can. Now saying he wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

We both laugh.

‘We’ll see Jake inside I s’pose,’ I suggest.

‘Yeah, I guess. See you in a bit,’

‘In a bit mate.’

It’s early July and the sun is on the wane after a strong performance during the late afternoon. A strong performance by this summer’s standards, anyway. The summer in Leicester of 2005.

The vacant grey concrete shop fronts of Granby Street are left behind as we stride excitedly passed a series of newsagents on Halford Street. It’s 7pm. All have staff still tied to their desks.

No customers in any of the estate agents.

‘No way I’m working in one of them,’ I announce to Kush, dribbling a Coke can along the pavement with both feet as we near Free lane, whilst pointing to none of the estate agents in particular. But all of them at the same time. Loftier ambitions, me, apparently.

‘None of us know what we’ll do, my friend,’ replies Kush, with an expertly timed tackle leading to the can being knocked into the road and thus, out of play.

Kush is the super-friendly, ever smiling type. Quite different from the lad I met when we both arrived at De Montfort Uni a couple of years back. He was nervous, shy and withdrawn at that point.

He is a electronics student, like me. It is this that unites us. I also have been a long time underground music fan. Especially underground punk rock, such as that released on Household Name Records. We are in town tonight to see an example of such underground punk rock. It is to be performed by The Filaments on their farewell tour.


The singer is leaving for America, see. Emigration can really mess things up for underground punk rock bands.

Kush wasn’t into anything when we met. Certainly not underground music. Well, maybe he was into cricket. And maybe football. But he soon started hanging out with me as I went in search of the underground music. I still don’t think he is really into the actual MUSIC, but loves being around people and makes friends whoever he talks

Never a bad word, as they say.

We take a sharp left onto Free Lane’s narrow thoroughfare. Young, and old, scruffy looking, spiky looking, studded looking, humanoids (punkoids, as we call them) spill out from the club onto the street itself. Black, cut off t-shirts abound.

Splashed with lurid pink, green lettering and symbols. Tight jeans, and girls in skimpy vest tops, are also in good number.

‘Love these nights,’ Kush grins, mischievously, looking at one such female punkoid.

I nod in agreement. I can hear The DJ playing The Slackers. Another of my underground favourites. From NYC. We saw them in Leicester a while back, and they hung with us after the show. This is what I love about the Leicester underground music scene. Bands seem happy to drink with us. There is no us AND them. It’s a definite communal US.

We dodge our way through the punkoids sprawled all over the pavement. I am dressed in baggy shorts and a gig t-shirt. Captain Everything are the band emblazoned on it. Not that striking looking I guess. No disrespect to Captain Everything. It’s a smart t-shirt see. Not customized at all. Not cut off at the sleeves, midriff or anything. All punkoids seem to have customized clothing. I’m a bit of a Mummy’s boy in comparison, basically nicely turned out. I’ve not even noticed what Kush is wearing. In a way that sums up his attire, I guess.

‘Alright lads,’ Frank, the Geordie bouncer greets us.

‘Alright Frank.’

‘Gonna be packed tonight, it is. Already loads in.’

‘Great stuff,’ I smile, handing over my four quid admission.

‘Enjoy,’ wishes Frank, putting the cash in his money bag and thrusting it into his jeans. He’s sweating buckets.

To describe The Attik as scruffy and shambolic would be putting it mildly. There is no cash desk, for example, for Frank to sit behind and take the entrance money. He just stands there and stuffs it in his pocket. But we, and loads like us, love it. It has underground music, cheap drinks and friendly faces. And crap toilets.

And it genuinely seems to heave when it is rammed with punters. Which it frequently is on a night when Household Name bands play. The black walls themselves seem to drip with sweat, and the upstairs floor appears to bounce with the crowd. It’s the same on EDM (Electronic Dance Music) nights, which I also attend.

And on drum n bass nights I’m told. Which I avoid.

The downstairs is full with punkoids. The DJ has a small dance floor working already, and the tiny bar has a three or four deep crush.

‘Looks like we’ll have to adopt plan b,’ I suggest to Kush. He nods and beams back at me.

This means we order two pints of Fosters (the cheapest drink) each instead of one. I generally down the first one quickly. Kush does the same, these days. Plan b means we already have our second pint with us. So we don’t have to queue up again. Genius.

When he first started coming it seemed to take Kush all night to finish just one half.

A hard slap on my back is accompanied with a familiar greeting.

‘Alright Stefan!’

It’s a red faced, sweaty, smiling, wide eyed Jake. About five foot six, with signs of a beer belly emerging. Short, spiked up dark hair. Daniel, a tall, (trying to be) cool customer, slouches up behind him. Thin, with shiny black side parted hair. He also seems uncomfortably hot in the heat of a summers night in the bijou independent music haunt.

‘How’s it going fellas?’ Jake shouts, ever widening eyes looking directly into mine.

He’s already been hard at it, by the looks of things.

‘Okay ta. You?’ Kush asks, looking at Daniel for clarification.

‘He’s a bit too okay, I’d say,’ Daniel smirks.

‘Piss off you toffy nosed, well, I better not be too rude, you keep buying me drinks.’

We all laugh. Jake, like Kush, hasn’t a bad bone in him. Just drinks a bit too much too often.

Daniel is easily manipulated by some folk. A bit too nice. Too generous. He comes from a wealthy family, and a few round the scene have clocked onto this. He had a girlfriend for a while, who rinsed him of his allowance. She is already here tonight, drunk. And rubbing herself up against a couple on the dance floor, I notice. I tut and shake my head towards Daniel. He smiles pathetically back at me.

‘How’d the gig in London go?’ I ask Daniel, immediately changing the subject.

‘Really well. It looks like a tour support or something may come of it,’ Daniel responds, beaming.

Daniel ‘manages’ a local band called The Gentlemen. Which means he is their dogsbody. He drives them to gigs, helps fund recordings and equipment, and ensures their rider is in place. Even if the venue doesn’t provide one. Which means he himself pays for it and provides it, I suspect. He is also, of course, their roadie. I’m sure he also undertakes numerous other undesirable duties on their behalf.

They definitely take advantage of him.

‘The band are coming down here tonight,’ he announces.

Me, Kush and Jake look at each other, puzzled.

‘What, to see the Filaments? Decent music?’ I enquire, a little horrified.

You see, The Gentlemen are the latest in the Leicester conveyor belt of Oasis sounding wannabes. They describe themselves as the ‘new cutting edge indie kings’.

Ironic as indie for a long time has been the new mainstream. Nothing cutting edge about The Gentlemen, for sure. And nowhere near to being decent, either. In my opinion, anyway. And they are an arrogant bunch of dicks with a over inflated sense of their own importance. Just saying.

‘No. To see me. Frank says he’ll give me a shout when they get here.’

We nod, glancing uneasily at each other. Inevitably, my gaze caught Daniel’s  ex-girlfriend. And Daniel caught me doing it. Bollocks. I’ve been trying to be so supportive about his too.

Thankfully, right on queue, Frank appears.

‘Your Gentlemen are here Daniel,’ Frank announces. And off, dutifully, trundles Daniel.

The three of us turn to each other. The door for the upstairs has just opened, which  means the gig will start in a few minutes. The live gigs take place on the upstairs floor.

Skin, the sound technician appears next to us on his way to the toilets.

‘Might need my best turd polishing kit for this first lot, lads,’ he remarks on his way by us.

We all laugh loudly. To clarify, this is one of Skin’s jokes. You even get to know the staff here. It means the band in question are crap. So no matter how hard he tries, Skin will not be able to make them sound good. So you can’t polish a turd, see.

A turd is a turd, after all.

‘Shall we go and see this turd then,’ Kush suggests.

‘Okay. They ain’t that bad, I’m sure.’ I know the guitarist, so feel I need to be supportive.

‘I’ll just go and tell Daniel we’re on our way up,’ Jake shouts and lumbers towards the door.

A few seconds later he returns, just as we’re at the door way heading upstairs.

‘You’d better come.’ For once, without any smile on his face.

We follow him to the main door. Frank points and ushers us towards Daniel.

Daniel is slumped on the concrete path. Sitting, leaning forward. His elbows are on his upright knees. His head is in his hands.

He is obviously upset.

We look nervously at each other.

Kush goes first.

‘What’s up mate?’

The sound of the opening act can be heard emanating from upstairs. Well, more exploding from upstairs, really. They don’t sound like a turd at all.

Daniel slowly lifts his head from his hands.

‘Those bastards have fired me,’ he snaps loudly.

He sniffs. He blubs a bit, also. And returns his head to his hands, elbows still resting on his knees.

Nightmare. To be honest, I have often wondered what Daniel would do without The  Gentlemen. They have given him a focus over the last year or so since he dropped out of Uni. Daniel has had mental health issues. One time he overdosed. Deliberately I’m sure. On pain killers. Not enough to kill himself, as it turned out.


It was a cry for help though.

So being the manager of The Gentlemen has given an exciting focal point to his life

He has felt important. Made new ‘friends’.

And now those arrogant bunch of dicks have done this.

We look at each other, raising eyebrows, puffing out cheeks.

Daniel lifts his head from his hands once more. He keeps his head still. His eyes are wide open. He stares ahead. But he doesn’t focus on anything. Looking, not seeing.

His complexion is clammy, and white. Life appears to have drained from his face. He is silent.

He is in shock, I would say.

‘Do you want to come and check out the band?’ enquires Jake.

I flash a angry glance at him. Right now, the last thing Daniel would want to do is watch a live band, I’m sure. I can’t believe Jake, even drunk, thought this would be a good thing for Daniel to do at present.

Daniel does not respond in anyway to Jake’s question. He just sits there. Numb.

Jake shuffles from foot to foot. Dumb.

The thing is the three of us have been looking forward to seeing The Filaments for

months. And it will be our last chance to see them, with the band planning to split after this tour. Bollocks. Talk about timing.

I settle down next to Daniel. I put my arm round him. I have nothing to say. I know what The Gentlemen mean to Daniel. He has ended up looking a bit gullible, to say the least. Loads will be laughing at his expense close in The Gentlemen’s social radar,

I’m sure.


They all took the piss out of Daniel. With one exception.

As the row exploding from upstairs at The Attik ceases temporarily, I hear footsteps clicking. They are getting louder. I look to my left.

It is Terri. Short for Teresa (I assume).

Terri is tall and elegant. With cool a 1960s-style haircut. Slightly mod-ish. She is dressed in red which compliments her dark hair and shades.

She removes the shades and crouches down to face Daniel. She gives me a concerned glance.

‘I heard what they did Daniel. The bastards. I’m so angry with them.’

She throws me another concerned look, before focusing her big, hazel, sympathetic eyes back on Daniel.

‘How are you, Daniel?’

Silence. I’m not sure her presence has registered with him. How he could fail to notice such beauty is beyond me. She seems really worried about Daniel.

‘Listen, I’m going to have a word with your friends then I’ll go home with you and we can have a cup of tea or something. I want to look after you tonight Daniel.’

Daniel slowly turns his eyes to meet with Terri’s. He nods slowly.

‘Good. Let me have a word with your friends.’

She catches my eye again and beckons me away for a word.

Terri is beautiful, kind and assertive. She has brains. And a future, I’m sure.

God knows why she has ended up dating Kieran, the dickhead lead singer of the


‘Kieran has told me they’ve sacked him.’

‘Why have they done this to him?’ I ask.

‘They are expecting a new manager to come to the show tomorrow night in the West End of town. They met him London. They want Daniel out of the way basically.’


‘But Daniel does everything for them. They’ve took his money and everything.’


‘I know. I can’t stand to see Kieran treat another human being like this. He’s a self-centred prat.’

‘Daniel has their gear in his garage.’

‘I s’pose they’ll go and get it during the day tomorrow, or something,’ she sighs.

She then whispers…

‘Kieran says Daniel is an embarrassment to them. He doesn’t dress like they do, and isn’t cool enough. I’m ditching Kieran by the way.’

‘He doesn’t know that yet,’ she adds.

‘I’m in then,’ I think to myself.

‘Okaaay,’ is my only actual audible response to this, though. Unconvincing to say the least.

‘I’ll take Daniel home and stay with him. I knew this would hit him hard. He worships the boys. God knows why. They don’t deserve him, for sure.’

‘I’ll be round tomorrow morning to check on him. With Kush, I’d think.’

‘That’d be good. I’ve got work from eleven so I can’t stay with him all day. What’s your name love?’


‘Here’s my number Stef. Text me and then I can have your number too.’

I WILL be in here at this rate. Normally getting a girl’s number is pretty much impossible for me.

Terri moves back to Daniel and puts her hands on his shoulders.

‘Come on you. Let’s get a burger and get home.’

Daniel just nods, and slowly drags himself up. As if he’s reluctantly going home with his Mum. No enthusiasm. I’m not sure he knows what’s going on.

They proceed to walk slowly down the street. Passed Frank, who nods sympathetically as they pass. Terri’s arm is round Daniel’s shoulder. Daniel just walks, arms flopping by his side.


‘What’s that all about?’ asks Frank as we head back into the club in silence.

‘You know the band The Gentlemen?’ Kush begins.

‘What the band who wanna be Oasis?’ he replies.

‘Minus the talent, style or songs,’ continues Jake.

‘Yeah,’ laughs Frank. ‘I know ‘em.’

‘Well Daniel managed them. Did everything for them. Even paid for things,’ I explain.

‘What sort of things?’

‘Studio time, petrol for the van, riders.’

Frank widens his eyes in disbelief.

‘Well they went to London for a show. And now a new manager is coming to their show in the West End tomorrow. So they’ve sacked Daniel and told him they don’t want him around no more.’



‘He seems a fragile soul too an’ all,’ ponders Frank.

‘You don’t know the half of it. He tried to top himself once,’

Frank widens his eyed again. At this point a load of spiky, sweaty punkoids pile downstairs for the interval. Frank’s attention turns to them.

‘Look after him lads,’ he shouts as we head towards the bar for more much needed pints of Fosters.

The Filaments play a blinding set. The black walls of the club are streaming with moisture. The excitement levels are sky high. The shouty, boisterous choruses are sung (shouted) in unison and can be heard over the other side of town, I’m sure. A brilliant gig. One of the best. The Attik floor seemed to bounce up and down for ninety minutes or so.

But I can’t give it my all. I am thinking about Daniel. I am seriously worrying about his welfare. He IS fragile, as Frank suggested. He can’t cope unless he is busy and focused. Now he will just drift, I am sure. To where, I don’t know.

I cannot believe he is on his own at home with Terri, either. Just saying.

‘I’m going to see Daniel in the morning to check on him,’ I say to Kush and Jake on the way home.

‘I’ll come too,’ offers Kush. I knew he would.

‘I’m at work otherwise I would too,’ adds Jake.

‘No worries. We could have done with your van to drop the Gentlemen’s gear off.’

‘It’d save Daniel dealing with it,’ explains Kush.

‘No way I’d help those bastards.’ End of conversation.

We all nod and enter a late night chicken burger shop. Cheap one pound chicken burgers all round. Normal routine after a gig.

Eventually I make it to the house I share with a couple of other students. They are away for the summer right now. It is bare and empty.

It has been an eventful night. Not the night I expected.

No way it is alright for The Gentlemen to do this to my mate, and then head off into the sunset. No way.

I am vindictive. It is a fault of mine.

I am going to hatch a plan.


The next morning I get up early in a determined frame of mind. I have slept on my plan.

I head for Daniel’s house, which is situated in the West End. Not far from the venue on Narborough Road where the Gentlemen are due to play this evening.

Out of the blue my phone bleeps. I have a text.

From Terri.


‘Hi Stef. It’s Terri. Daniel’s parents are here and are to take him home to look after him. I’m here until 10.30am time so if you could be round for then that would be good. The band want to get their gear about 2pm if ok? I need to give you the key. Terri. X.’

I’ll treasure that text a while. No deleting it. Hardly ever get texts from girls.

Especially glamorous cool ones.

I reply swiftly. And in style. Kind of.

‘Alright Terri. That’s fine. I’ll be there about half ten. Stef. X.’

On route I drop in on Kush, who lives in a typical 1930s student terrace.


‘Yep. Just get me coat.’

God knows why he needs his coat. It’s already sweltering. I’m in another smart gig t-shirt. This summer sun has thus far consisted of the last couple of days. Kush wears the same green coat when the weather is like Siberia, or San Tropez. Not that I’ve been to either place, incidentally.

‘Daniel won’t be there when we get round mate. He’s going home with his parents so they can look after him. Terri has been in touch.’

‘She stayed the night then?’

‘Assume so.’ We both have the same envious expression.

‘She’s asked me to let the Gentlemen in later on to get their gear.’

A short pause.

‘I want to get some sort of revenge on those bastards.’

‘Okaayyeee.’ Kush sounds unsure.

We don’t talk any further on the subject as we continue our journey. Instead we reminisce about how good The Filaments were, and how much we love the Leicester punk rock scene right now.

‘A good mix of young and old, all looking out for each other,’ Kush suggests.

‘Exactly. All looking out for each other. Like we are Daniel,’ I conclude.

‘You alright mate..that sounded a bit aggressive.’

‘Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to.’

We arrive at Daniel’s place. Terri answers the door. She can’t hang around. Sadly.

‘I’m going to ditch that prat Kieran just before the show tonight. He has to learn you can’t treat people like he has treated Daniel. He’s the one behind this I’m sure. I cannot believe it’s taken me so long to suss it.’

We nod. We have nothing to offer. No idea how to talk to girls. Especially in moments of high emotion such as this.

‘Hopefully it’ll mess him up for the show,’ she adds.

‘Hopefully,’ Kush responds.

‘Yeah hopefully,’ I repeat. There, said something.

There is no sign of Terri’s anger having subsided.

‘How was Daniel?’ I ask, changing the subject.

‘Not good really. He hardly spoke all night. So I rang his Mum. They came down straight the way. Like they knew the impact this would have on him.’

‘He tried to kill himself once you know?’ I point out.

‘Doesn’t surprise me. Come to think of it, I heard Kieran and the lads laughing about that once. Bastards.’

And with that, Terri is gone. Seething.

Kush looks directly at me.

‘What revenge have you got in mind?’

Without hesitation I begin to explain my plan.

‘The bastards are coming to get their gear this afternoon.’

Kush nods, maintaining my gaze. Matching it in intensity now, in fact. He’s in.

‘We could sabotage their gear. So their show doesn’t go so well in front of this manager.’

‘It’d have to be in such a way it appears normal. We can’t just cut a wire or two.


They’d spot that in the soundcheck.’

‘I know. They don’t soundcheck much, Daniel used to say. And they do have trouble with the guitarist’s instrument from time to time, he also told me. He only has one guitar, too.’

Kush nods.

‘So if his guitar breaks he’s knackered.’

I nod and continue.

‘So, if we use our electronics know-how to, say, do something to the input so the solder weakens significantly, it’d keep cutting out. And after a few minutes there’d be no sound coming from it at all.’

‘They’d look a bunch of prats.’

‘Also, it’s the sort of thing Daniel would have repaired in the past.’

‘Would serve them right if this goes to plan.’

‘Should have kept Daniel.’


Daniel too was electronics student until he dropped out of uni. Handy for repairing The Gentlemen’s equipment.

We get to work. It looks like the solder inside the input is about to crack anyway. So loosening the nut and cracking the solder further will make malfunction guaranteed.

Inevitable, really.

‘Malfunction guaranteed’ sounds like a name for a punk band, I think for a moment, digressing now.

Just for good measure, Kush does the same thing to the bass guitarist’s instrument.

Operation complete, we return the instruments to their cases.

‘It might not work you know. They’ll probably get signed and be megastars anyway,’ Kush complains.

‘There’s no way those instruments will make it tonight. They’ll start off okay, then deteriorate before packing up completely. Then the band will look like prats. Then the bastards will start falling out on stage. And finally they’ll look like the amateur, arrogant shit dickheads they really are.’

About half an hour later there’s a rap on the door.

‘They’re here,’ Kush announces.

I answer. Very slowly.

‘Oh. Thought Daniel would answer,’ one of them reacts upon seeing me. No sign of Kieran.

‘Well he’s had to go away,’ I say coldly.

‘Oh,’ another replies, taking a puff from his cigarette. And then blowing the smoke in my direction.

I smile back sarcastically.

‘Your stuff is in here,’ I state, pointing to the garage. I walk over to the blue, flaky wooden door and unlock it. I open the door and beckon them in.

‘You helpin’ us then,’ another of them asks, expectantly.


Clearly they’re used to Daniel doing everything for them.

‘Oh. Have to do it ourselves then?’


I go back inside the house. No intention of helping this lot. It’s funny to hear them complaining as they load the gear in the van. Clueless how to do it efficiently. Clearly

Daniel must have done all of this for them while they were lauding it up like rock stars.

They even manage to pull away with the back door open. One of the drums rolls out.

Hilarious. It’s like ‘Carry on gigging’ would be if such a film were to be made. Which it should be.

Eventually they are gone.

Kush looks at me.

‘Shall we go along tonight?’

‘Definitely. Should be a car crash of a gig.’

I smile wickedly to myself.


The sun has put in another strong performance this afternoon. It is now on the wane once more as we make our way to the gig.

My new Nokia rings.

‘You there yet?’ Jake’s voice comes through loud and clear.

‘Not yet. Just met Kush in McDonalds. Ten minutes mate.’

‘Okay. See you in ten. I’ll have a beer and wait in the pub.’

Me and Kush are jostling for control of another Coke can as we head towards the West End. It drops into the road and thus out of play as soon as I put the phone back in my pocket.

‘Don’t know if I’m looking forward to this,’ confesses Kush.

‘Me neither. We’ve gotta go though. We’ll never know how it went otherwise.’

‘Better not let on if things do go wrong though. Or go right, from our point of view.’

We laugh.

‘For sure. Don’t say anything to Jake. Not until afterwards, anyway,’ I persist.

‘Probably not even then. Not sure I could trust him to keep his gob shut when he’s had a few.’

‘Good point. Total shtum then. Just between you and me, right?


We emphasize the accord with a fist bump.

‘Hang on… is that Terri?’ Kush asks.


‘Just there… near the burger shop. Just getting into a cab.’

‘Ah yeah…I see her now. Looks like she’s had a row with that prat Kieran.’

I smile to myself. It looks like the first phase of the evening’s events may just have happened.

‘WELL…SOD YOU! YOU’VE LOST THE CHANCE TO BE WITH A ROCK STAR,’ Kieran bellows, as the cab pulls away.

He then hurls his pint glass to the floor, punches the wall and heads back into the venue.

Holding his fist. The idiot. Like he didn’t know punching a brick wall with his own fist would hurt.

‘It looks like she’s just ditched him then,’ summarizes Kush after a pause.

‘Err..yeah. Looks like it.’

I smile to myself once more. Karma, Kieran, karma.

And I have Terri’s number. Though the chance of me actually being successful if I ask her out are about as possible as the Gentlemen being able to write a decent tune.

And then be able to play it with charm and appeal.

Pretty low. Virtually impossible. Forget it then.

It’s not what’s important tonight though. It’s about Daniel. To equal things up a little. We meet up with Jake in a pub about a hundred yards from the venue. A modern bar, with chrome everywhere. It also serves bottles, not pints. Everyone inside  looks like they are off ‘Big Brother’ or something. Trying to be famous.

Except us. And Jake. And his crowd of mates.

‘We’ve decided we ain’t going to the gig’ announces Jake.

‘Don’t wanna give those tossers our cash,’ CJ explains. CJ is Jake’s mate.

Sometimes he goes to the Household Name punk shows. Looks almost exactly like

Jake. Small-ish, with a beer belly on the way. Ginger hair though. That’s how you tell them apart.

Jake then positions his bottle of Becks a foot from his mouth, like a microphone. He eases me away slightly, to give himself space.

‘Plus… they’re SHH-IIITE!’ Jake bawls into his makeshift microphone.


Cue much laughter. At Jake’s impersonation of Liam Gallagher. Quite funny, really.

We swallow a quick bottle of lager, bid our farewells and head to the gig.

‘Seven quid mate,’ the doorman deadpans upon our arrival.

‘What? Seven quid!!??’ Kush exclaims. For once his smile disappears.

‘They’re gonna be famous mate. It’s cheap.’

I give him a sarcastic smile. We reluctantly pay up and enter the venue. It’s packed, to be fair. Rent-a-crowd, but full none the less.

We get a Carling each and stand at the back. The Gentlemen saunter onto the stage more or less immediately.

I have a strange sensation in my stomach. Butterflies. Like just before an exam. Or a visit to the dentist. Nervous tension. Me and Kush look uneasily at each other. And say nothing. It’s like waiting for a battle to commence.

I watch closely as the guitarist straps on his guitar. He strums it. It makes the usual ‘joink’ noise a mildly distorted guitar does as the player checks it before a gig commences. To ensure it’s still working, see.

If he only knew what was about to happen to him.

Kieran the prat mumbles something inaudible into the microphone. The crowd cheer.

They then launch into the first number.

I say ‘launch’. It’s pretty turgid really. The guitarist jangles a distorted chord sequence, the drummer teases us with half a rhythm. The bass player checks he’s playing the correct notes, Kieran whoops into the microphone and they’re off.

Into mid paced tedious indie monotony. The crowd love it though.

Actually, it has a decent chorus. People sing a long to it. It’s pretty good, though I hate to admit it.

I begin to feel guilty. Have I misjudged the band? What if I am about to rob the public of the best indie band since Oasis? What have I done? And, if all goes to plan, I could have wrecked the night for everyone in the venue to boot. Didn’t think of that.


Too late now. I just worked from my own agenda.

And sure enough, the guitarist’s instrument starts to play up towards the end of the first song. I’m not sure many other people have spotted this. But I certainly have.

Ignoring his plight the drummer immediately starts the second number. The guitar cuts out a little more. The guitarist starts to look panic-stricken. Even his sixties hairdo suddenly looks on edge, somehow.

Kieran starts to glare with anger at him under his David Beckham style barnet. He looks furious.

Eventually the guitar cuts out completely, leaving only the bass and drums sounding.

And the bass is starting to cut out too. Finally, it all grinds to a halt.

The drummer hurls his sticks in the air. Whistles and ironic cheers are immediately heard from the crowd.

Kieran the prat mumbles something inaudible into the microphone once more. I make out lots of f-words.

I am sweating. Panicking. I am also on edge. Like the guitarist’s sixties hairdo. This is my fault, remember. Extreme guilt begins to creep in.

The band come together in front of the drum kit. They are shouting at each other, pushing and shoving.

Eventually the guitarist rips off his instrument and lobs it at the drum kit. Kieran slaps him round the face. He in turn launches himself into Kieran and before you know it, all four of them are rolling around the stage, punching and kicking one another.

The crowd cheer. But the cheers soon start to subside. Boos, hisses and whistles soon take over.

The Gentlemen continue to brawl. In rock n roll history, on stage bust ups and violence at gigs are common place. Jesus and the Mary Chain, Sex Pistols, The Who.

But those bands were legendary, good acts who earnt the right to riot. Not so this mob. They just look pathetic.


Had Daniel been here, he could have fixed the problematical instrument in five minutes flat. Serves them right. I look to my right. A gent in stylish clobber, and with a cockney accent, curses out loud. He finishes his drink. He slams his empty glass down. And heads briskly for the exit. As if his time had been wasted.

I clocked him as we arrived. Possibly as being the manager who had travelled up from London to see these bastards. I’d be annoyed. Come all this way to see an on-stage brawl. Not even a good one, either.

I look at Kush. He looks back. Both of us have glum, serious expressions. Inside though, my previous tension and concern has given way to euphoria.

This couldn’t have turned out better.

No-one, I repeat no-one, messes with my mate Daniel. Or any of my other mates.

People like me, and Daniel, and Kush may be quiet. You may not notice us.

But when we plan to punch, we do so with devastation. We do it properly.


A week or so later I run into CJ in McDonalds. I’m on my way to meet Kush.

‘How’s your mate Daniel?’

‘He text-ed me the other day. Said he’s doing okay. He’s with his parents. No plans to return to Leicester just yet.’

‘I heard that band he managed have split up. That gig last week was a disaster, they  ended up kicking the shit out of each other on-stage. So I’ve heard, anyway.’

I nod calmly. And look him in the eye.

‘Yeah. It was a disaster. I was there. It was a real car crash of a gig. Shame.’

‘Maybe they had it coming. I heard they weren’t the nicest bunch.’

‘Yeah. Maybe CJ. Maybe.’

‘Ok Stef… see ya.’

‘See ya CJ.’

I turn to the counter to place my order.

‘Big Mac meal please mate,’ I request.

With a wicked serving of revenge. As a side.

Bio:  Paul Matts is the author short stories such as ‘Donny Jackal’ and ‘One more

Season’. His debut novel ‘Toy Guitars’ is to be published in 2019. He promoted live Punk rock shows under the name 101 Productions and has been the guitarist and songwriter for several bands in England, including the Incurables. He lives in Leicester, England with his wife and children. He has recently started work on his second novel.




Cathi USE THIS ONE - May 2015 - Credit Julian Ibbitson [at] www.ibbitsonphotography.co.uk

SONGS ‘Some Velvet Morning’ Lee Hazlewood & Nancy Sinatra, ‘Telstar’ The Tornados, ‘Bedlam’ Gallon Drunk, ‘The Gospel Singer’ Big Sexy Noise, ‘Give It Up’ Lee Dorsey, ‘Let’s Take It To The Stage’ Funkadelic, ‘The Gravedigger Song’ Mark Lanegan Band, ‘The Man With The Golden Arm’ Barry Adamson, ‘Yeh Yeh’ Georgie Fame, ‘Jack The Ripper’ Screaming Lord Sutch, ‘Alice’ Sisters of Mercy, ‘The Hair of the Widow of Bridlington’ Jake Thackray.

TELEVISON Edge of Darkness, Our Friends In The North, Sopranos, House of Cards (both versions), Talking Pictures TV, the best channel in history.

BOOKS I Was Dora Suarez Derek Raymond, The Man With The Golden Arm Nelson Algren, LA Quartet James Ellroy, Red Riding Quartet David Peace, The Knockout Artist Harry Crews, Borrowed Light Joolz Denby, The Fatal Tree Jake Arnott, The Devil Is A Gentleman Phil Baker, An Underworld At War Donald Thomas, Hellfire Nick Tosches

FILMS The League of Gentlemen, Séance on a Wet Afternoon, The L-Shaped Room, Whistle Down The Wind, The Whisperers, Performance, Get Carter, 10 Rillington Place, The Wild Bunch, Bring Me The Head of Alfredo Garcia, City of God, Goodfellas, Casino, LA Confidential…

PLACES Ladbroke Grove, Fitzrovia, Hampstead Heath, over the hills and far away.

OTHER STUFF Fortean Times and related studies in witchcraft, esoterica, ghost Roman legions, timeslips and general weirdness. The hidden history of the United Kingdom held in newspaper archives, The National Archive, The British Library, all libraries, art galleries, museums great and small. The art of Francis Bacon, Walter Sickert, John Atkinson Grimshaw, Stanley Spencer, Richard Dadd, Paul Nash, Edward Burra, Austin Osman Spare, William Hogarth, James Gilray and Viz comic. Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, Alan Bennett and the prophet Bill Hicks.

Bio: Cathi Unsworth is the author of six highly acclaimed pop-cultural crime novels, That Old Black Magic (2018), Without The Moon (2015), Weirdo (2013), Bad Penny Blues (2009), The Singer (2007) and The Not Knowing (2005, all Serpent’s Tail). She began her writing career at the age of 19 on Sounds and has since worked as an editor on Bizarre and Purr. She has written on music, film, pop culture and general weirdness for Fortean Times, Financial Times, The Guardian, Mojo, Sight & Sound and Uncut among others. Next year will see the publication of Defying Gravity, the biography of Jordan Mooney which Cathi has authored alongside the woman known as The First Sex Pistol. More at www.cathiunsworth.co.uk




Come Fly With Me by Frank Sinatra

Gangster of Love by Johnny Guitar Watson

Machine Gun Kelly by Nancy Sinatra

Rags To Riches by Tony Bennett

Promised Land by Chuck Berry

San Francisco Blues by Ramblin’ Jack Elliott

Pull My Daisy by David Amram

On the Sunny Side of the Street by Dizzy Gillespie

Follow the Leader by Eric B. & Rakim

These Days by Nico

The Wild One by Suzi Quatro




Naked City

The Twilight Zone

The Untouchables

Johnny Staccato

Peter Gunn


Alfred Hitchcock Hour

Tales of the Unexpected

Tales From the Crypt


The Man From U.N.C.L.E.

Breaking Bad




AGAINST NATURE by Joris-Karl Huysmans

BOREDOM by Alberto Moravia


THE INVENTION OF MOREL by Adolfo Bioy Casares


THE LONG GOODBYE by Raymond Chandler

ON THE ROAD by Jack Kerouac

PIMP by Iceberg Slim

STORY OF THE EYE by Bataille



PICK-UP by Charles Willeford

ROGUE COP by William P. McGivern

DEATH WISH by Brian Garfield

A SWELL-LOOKING GIRL by Erskine Caldwell





Vertigo by Alfred Hitchcock

Taxi Driver by Martin Scorsese

Out of the Past by Jacques Tourneur

The Connection by Shirley Clarke

Le cercle rouge by Jean-Pierre Melville

Le bonheur by Agnès Varda

Breathless by Jean-Luc Godard

Easy Rider by Dennis Hopper

Scorpio Rising by Kenneth Anger

Il Sorpasso by Dino Risi

The Searchers by John Ford

Scarface by Howard Hawks

Blast of Silence by Allen Baron

Trans-Europ-Express by Alain Robbe-Grillet

Mikey and Nicky by Elaine May




Big Sur, California

San Francisco, California

Las Vegas, Nevada

Paris, France

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania






Pulp paperbacks

Vintage pin-ups

EC Comics

Mid-Century Modern and Space Age design


Bio: Elizabeth Yoo is a freelance illustrator and writer based in New York. She has had several solo art exhibits in New York and frequently illustrates for books and other publications. Her most recent book work is the illustrated cover for the latest novel in Stephen Jared’s Jack Hunter series, The Chameleon Thief of Cairo, published in the spring of 2018. She frequently collaborates with City Lights writer and poet Tosh Berman and they are currently working on a cinema book together. She also shares a booth every year at New York Comic Con with writer R.J. Huneke, representing Rune Works Productions. They have just begun working on their first graphic novel, a neo-noir dystopian spy thriller. Additionally, she assists Academy Award-nominated director Immy Humes on the first documentary about pioneering independent filmmaker Shirley Clarke. It is currently in production. You can visit Elizabeth’s website, view her art at her Etsy shop, or follow her on Instagram and Twitter at @lejazznik.