scans.
DROWN AND OUT IN BEVERLY HILLS
• Five self-effacing Stourbridge crustcore merchants making a splash in corporate sinkhole America? Surreal but true - NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN are outselling mentors and adversaries in the biggest record market in the world, says STEPHEN DALTON. Pond life: STEVE DOUBLE
The Living Head is missing. Somewhere in the undulating gridlock of
sunny San Francisco, Alex Griffin
- aka The Living Head, Amanda and The Pumpkin - bassist for that danceably
melodic Stourbridge crustcore band with the goofball haircuts and irritatingly
wacky name, has disappeared on an early morning walkabout.
Ned's Atomic Dustbin might have a spare bass-player, but that's not
the point. Alex is still needed for tonight's end-of-tour show in LA.
More urgently, his presence is required on an internal flight leaving
one hour from now.
Everyone knows last night's San Francisco gig lacked spark, spunk and
stage monitors, culminating in singer Jonn Penney almost fainting with
hyperventilation, but it surely wasn't that bad? Behind the crew japery
regarding Alex's "imminent non-arrival" lies a nugget of genuine
concern.
Finally we speed off for the airport, leaving Neds manager Tank at the
hotel. He tells the receptionist to watch for "a gangly idiot who
looks like he wants to be in a band". Half an hour later the receptionist
calls up to announce "the idiot has arrived". Tank, a diehard
Exploited fan, grabs a taxi and instructs the driver to head for the
airport at "punk rock" velocity. They arrive with minutes
to spare.
By the time we touch down in LA, "the idiot has arrived" is
the newest entry in Tank's notebook of memorably stupid phrases uttered
by the band and people in their orbit. It takes pride of place alongside
gems like "what's a toasted sandwich?", "where's the
great wall of China?" and "are these the towels?". Because,
above all else, Ned's Atomic Dustbin are a words band. Relentlessly
surreal banter between band and crew takes in the recent election victory
of P-Funk president George Clinton, chinchillas called Robert De Niro,
astroturf-covered Lambrettas, porcelain stunt dogs, punk rock yoghurts,
Friesian-coloured Toyotas, personality flyovers, AnuSol and Germolene.
This same dry, very English wordplay permeates Jonn's crafted lyrics
on their fine new album 'Are You Normal?' - a sleekly gliding thing,
like New Order with heavy rock guitars - and seeps into on-tour catchphrases
like "Buns Of Steel", taken from a genuine US commercial for
life-enhancing buttock-shapers.
This unique sense of humour also provides a shield against insidious
Americanisation. The first Neds LP, 'God Fodder', sold a staggering
330,000 copies over there and pre-sale orders of 'Are You Normal?',
not yet released, are already huge. Consequently this two-week warm-up
for next year's full tour attracts rampant teen hysteria while the band's
US label - new Sony offshoot Chaos - tries to impose clueless marketing
slogans on them like 'GET DOWN, GET NEDLY, THIS IS NOT A TEST'. Eeek.
But the truth is, whatever their extreme opinions towards the country,
the Neds need America badly. Even with almost 100,000 UK sales of 'God
Fodder", they barely break even at home: a similar story to most
bands at their level. So the most unlikely Brit invaders ever - all
provincial in-jokes and anti-star attitude - are consolidating this
popularity on their fourth Stateside jaunt.
Which means they have to clench their buns of steel and schmooze through
the biggest record market in the world. The Neds need to conquer America
without letting it conquer them, because this is where careers are made.
This is the real deal. This is not a test.
SPLISHETY SPLOSH. Ribald Stourbridge sarcasm spills from the rooftop
pool of the Hyatt hotel on Sunset Boulevard, a location immortalised
in This Is Spinal Tap but annexed by the Neds and
their entourage on arrival.
Here is cartoon rock'n'roll Hollywood at its height. Little Richard
lives two floors below us, and we later see him tripping daintily from
his mile-long limo into the lobby. All the guests look like they should
be in glam-metal bands called Buns Of Steel.
Everyone, that is, except the Neds. How can they possibly feel comfortable
in a town where all the world's ugliest, most talentless conformists
flock to reassure each other how beautiful, creative and individual
they are? Surely five self-effacing young Midlanders are fish out of
water in this sun-parched sinkhole of corporate insincerity?
"You can get far too upset about all that record company stuff,"
says 24-year-old Jonn, clambering out of the pool, a gangly stack of
rubberised extrusions from an artificial limb factory but still the
most even-tempered frontman in rock.
"That was my whole view of America before I came here. I had nightmares,
convinced I was going to absolutely hate the place based on everything
I'd seen and heard on telly: how shallow it comes across as being and
how corporate rock-ish it actually is. But the first time you meet a
human being here all that changes."
But even Tank calls his lads "talentless idiots from the Midlands".
Where does their famously apologetic attitude fit into MTV America's
party-your-ass-off agenda?
Jonn almost becomes agitated. "To be honest, I'm sick of being
put over as eating humble pie all the time. I don't feel that way. I've
never thought we were a crap band. We're a good band and we've got a
lot to offer to whatever country, we just don't blab about it."
With nigh-on half a million sales of 'God Fodder' worldwide, Jonn can
afford to blow his own trumpet for once. He takes a breath. "America's
been lacking something like us for a long time. They need some more
down-to-earth music, no-nonsense music, or nonsense of the right kind.
It's not about where we are, it's about people."
Jonn concedes maybe the Neds are "an Englishified version"
of certain US rock tendencies, but insists "what the yanks see
in English bands is their Englishness. If that's how it stays, I don't
feel at all bothered or compromised by the fact we do well here. Obviously
if I now decided to move to LA and made the next album here, then...
I'd be a dick."
By only ever writing lyrics at home in Stourbridge, Jonn likes to think
"there's a huge chunk of England in everything we do". He's
right, but there is also a hefty slice of his naturally downbeat persona.
Because, if the spiky tantrums on 'God Fodder" embody that stifling
summer of adolescence, 'Are You Normal?' is far more adult and autumnal
in mood: emotional numbness, yearning for lost innocence, even suicidal
despair lurk just below the deceptively unruffled surface of tunes like
new single 'Intact'.
"I can answer that in one sentence. When I'm happy I'm too busy
being happy to write lyrics, when I'm pissed off I write about it. I'm
not that deliberate with them anyway, I just have a whinge and then
cross all the shit bits out. Not a complicated process."
Is it still enjoyable being in the Neds, Jonn?
"It is now, at this moment. It was shit last night, I just didn't
get into that gig for a million boring reasons. If I don't get into
a gig it feels like prostitution, like I'm doing a strip act. It just
embarrasses and demoralises you."
EMBARRASSMENT AND demoralisation are not on the guest list for the
LA show some hours later. The Neds complete their tour in all-conquering
triumph at the legendary Whiskey club, heaving with sweaty young Californians
who mosh like rutting buffalo to the new songs before dismembering several
bouncers in the roaring hormone frenzy of old faves like 'Kill Your
Television'. Last night's misery is blowtorched from memory.
Spirits remain high as we trundle off for post-gig festivities at the
Cat & Fiddle, a genuine English-style pub the other end of Sunset
Boulevard. Authenticity has been closely observed in this home from
home, right down to the hideous decor, but not even this theme-park
shoddiness can numb the homesick ache of Mat Cheslin. Nursing a simulated
Irish-style Guinness, the surly 21 -year-old bassist scowls away his
last night in the country he despises more than any other Ned.
"It's a weakness, I know," he confesses. "I probably
hate LA more than the rest of America because it's Rock'n'Roll City,
and that doesn't turn me on in the slightest. I'm not one for sun at
all, I'm too f-ing freckly and Irish."
Mat claims to have inherited Catholic guilt genetically from his Irish
father. "I wasn't brought up a Catholic but my father was, and
he's the most profound atheist I've ever met. He's also the most profound
pessimist. If people think I'm a grumpy f- er they ought to meet my
father because he's out there somewhere."
Although he claims to be consumed by self-loathing, Mat is much calmer
than the angry young man I first met 18 months ago. He now lives 200
yards from his parents and misses them when touring.
"Everyone, at some point, realises they're just people. I don't
think you forgive them, you just stop resenting them for being your
parents. They never did anything wrong at all, I conjured it all up
to feel different because I was so desperate to be different from them."
Standard rites-of-passage stuff, of course, but Mat talks with fierce
sincerity. Slight drunkenness only sharpens his self-lacerating edge,
laying into his oft-presented image as the most philosophical Ned.
"I might as well be presented as a duck, know what I mean? People
are always offering me rewards I don't appreciate: sex, drugs, money...
this line of midget girls came up behind me today and tugged at my coat
tails, asking for autographs, and you just feel such a c- . There's
no other word for it."
Since he hates the circus so much, does Mat ever want to leave the ring?
"Yeah, I want to do something else. I just haven't got enough faith
in myself to say 'Sorry guys, I love you but I want to do something
different'. And I'd be dissatisfied with whatever I do. I personally
don't think I have an ounce of talent in my pathetic, wobbling body."
Then why not quit this farce right now?
"I've got some very good friends in the band and the crew. I've
got something a lot of people haven't, something very precious and rare.
I don't want to piss on that because that's just rude..."
Not to mention unhygienic. So what does Mat really want?
"I want a beard, a pipe, a wife, a dog, some kiddies to play with,
a car and a garage. Things like that. I believe so much in marriage
as well, and I never did until recently."
Some people sneer when pop stars turn into their parents. But it's inevitable
and, sitting in a
small-hours beer garden in LA chatting to someone who misses their girlfriend
so much they can barely speak, it's even quite touching.
Amusing as well, because several hours ago Jonn - always portrayed as
Mat's polar opposite in the Neds, sensitive poet versus sneering rock
viking, modest diplomat versus sharp-tongued cynic - said almost exactly
the same thing.
BLACK SABBATH's 'War Pigs' grunts angrily from the tour-bus stereo
as we thunder off on a loud quest for late-night liquor. For five glorious
minutes we are in a Stourbridge remake of Wayne's World,
head-banging our infantile way across Hollywood while tired and emotional
tour manager Steve Olive displays his not inconsiderable arse to passing
motorists. Yo, Los Angeles! are you ready to rock?
Alas not. Nobody sells alcohol after 2 am and the hotel bar is closed.
Rock'n'Roll City or what? Everyone steals off to bed except the elusive
Alex, who is still hyped up from the gig and feels like talking. For
nearly three hours, as it turns out.
The Living Head claims 'Are You Normal?' is the best album he has ever
heard and then apologises for such a naff sentiment. It certainly sounds
a more coherent body of work than 'God Fodder', we agree. "However
much we denied it, looking back, the first album is a set list on vinyl."
But by all accounts its sequel was a troublesome beast to tame. "About
halfway through writing this album I really thought it might end. It
was a horrible experience, we were dwelling on stuff. I don't know what
I'd do if we finished..."
Alex cannot believe the Neds are outselling their former mentors The
Wonder Stuff, fellow travellers Carter USM and self-styled adversaries
the Manics in America. "I really thought the Manics would do well
over here, going for the big-time glamour and nihilistic attitude. But
they didn't, so I underestimated America for thinking they'd go for
something that predictable."
Having been pleasantly surprised by America's welcoming embrace, Alex
has fewer qualms about Meet-and-Greet schmoozing than Mat. "I can
cope with it because I can stand back, so when people go 'You guys were
really smoking out there' or 'I was totally psyched for your show' you
can see right through it. Basically you switch off."
Does Alex still enjoy being a Ned?
"I've never been so happy in my life," he beams.
SPLISHETY SPLOSH. Again. Next morning, the rooftop pool is overflowing
with Neds and intrepid underwater cameraman Steve Double. Rat steadfastly
refuses to dampen his scarlet dreadlocks and Dan keeps his T-shirt on
because "he looks like Sean Connery" underneath, but NME's
very own Jacques Cousteau snaps away with infinite patience. Then it's
off to the Legoland sprawl of Long Beach where the band write 'BUNS
OF STEEL' in wet sand for more photos.
Tank, 25-year-old kid brother of Wonder Stuff drummer Martin Gilkes
and world-champion talker, remains by the promenade, observing sun-addled
Californians topple off their trendy rollerblade boots and smash into
hard concrete.
This reminds Tank of his motorcycle courier days, four years ago, when
he "went completely punk rock for a moment" and drove under
a truck. Soon afterwards he witnessed an early Neds gig and switched
to the marginally less hazardous career of rock management, funded initially
by insurance payments from his crash. Which probably makes the Neds
an accident waiting to happen...
We drop Jonn and Mat at LA airport for their early flight back to Blighty
before rounding off the afternoon at a low-key barbecue in the leafy
suburb of Sherman Oaks, home to the band's US manager Steve Rennie.
Here, Dan Worton offers me some man-to-man advice. "Make sure you
talk to them all the time. Whisper to them, they love that."
Dan is referring, of course, to his grey chinchilla Rob. "Named
after Mr De Niro, my favourite actor. They're a cross between a rabbit
and a squirrel, with big bushy tails." The diminutive drummer could
almost be describing himself here. "Apparently he's been eating
the skirting boards while I was away. And he does like licking his willy."
Indeed. Dan, alas, gleefully conforms to many sticksman stereotypes.
He is building a life-sized pub bar in his front room and - together
with his hardcore ally Mat - has formed a spin-off death metal outfit
called You're Dead Mate! Apparently.
The next Neds album, in 20-year-old Dan's ideal world, would be "like
Ministry crossed with Kylie Minogue". But can he envisage still
drumming for the band five years from now? "I do hope so. The more
records we sell, the more chinchillas I get, all named after prominent
actors. The next one's called Lauren Bacall."
Does Dan ever think about other careers?
"Not when you see what else I could be doing. I mean, my best mate's
just been made redundant after four years in a factory."
CRIMSON DUSK descends as Rat finally arrives and our barbecue shifts
up into party gear. The guitarist turned 22 today, exactly five years
since Ned's Atomic Dustbin were formed on his 17th birthday.
In many ways Rat is the band's heart, a neutral bridge linking Alex
and Jonn's sensitivity to Mat and Dan's extremism. He is also the most
enigmatic member, famous for sudden moodswings and panic attacks. While
all four fellow Neds spent large chunks of their Sony advance getting
mortgages, Rat remained with his parents and bought himself a sports
car instead.
He shrugs off the group's cartoon image as "because of the name,
basically. I don't think we've ever been goofball. We never thought
the haircuts were goofball, even when everybody was telling us we looked
stupid."
Rat does not display the same love-hate obsession with home as his colleagues,
but finds security in the band itself. "Until Ned's Atomic Dustbin
actually stops we'll never know what the hell's going to happen. We'd
like to be successful so this keeps going, so we're safe. I want to
keep feeling safe."
The Neds are safe, for now. As long as their ego-free protective shield
of undiluted Nedness repels industry bullshit. As long as they contain
and channel Mat's cynicism and Rat's moodiness. As long as their crew
keep them in line.
Most importantly, as long as vital markets like America find their anti-goofball
antics an alluring prospect, the Neds will remain punk rock chinchillas
in a billboard jungle full of paper tigers. Don't be fooled by their
floppy ears and fluffy tails - Ned's Atomic Dustbin are bunnies of steel.