"I was doubtless being serenaded by The Unholy Row
rehearsing in the adjacent room, a space we actively discouraged people from
using but which was fiercely popular due to its superior acoustics. The Unholy
Row embraced that punk ethic of incompetence as a virtue, and in their case
that other adage “practice makes perfect” held no fear as with each rehearsal
they seemed to actively get worse. They were our best customers.
One Friday after being press-ganged into drinking Thunderbird all
afternoon with A.F., I staggered up to the Fly to let the Unholies in. They
were one of the few bands who rehearsed on a Friday night; I think it was part
of their social calendar, but they were low maintenance once up and running. My
session with A.F. had taken its toll and before long I passed out on the office
floor. At the end of the night they found me flat out on the office floor, so I
was awoken by them and they carried me to the storeroom so they could put their
gear away, totally unphased by my inability to walk there myself. I declined
their offer to drive me back to the pub so they took me home and almost
certainly carried me up the stairs to my flat. If the atmosphere of the Dead
Fly needs to be summed up in any way then that little story doesn’t do a bad
job of it."
They were friendly and self-deprecating, always putting their own efforts down as amateurish at best (you can see what an encouragement I was), but they had an admirable camaraderie. Les was the driving force, a charismatic wiry guy, very earnest. He had a semi-Rod Stewart hairstyle that he carried off effortlessly due to his good looks. He was the lyricist, and from what I remember of them ( you see, that was the thing, bands would come and show you their lyrics, or recite them at a digestible speed, God knows what use me and Bun were in that field, I guess we were just a sounding-board, priests in the confessional box of weirdness, sworn by sanctity never to reveal them), they were great lyrics, but lost on an audience in their screamed scattershot delivery. (That's a great thing about Punk; imagine Shakespeare sweating over sonnets, then shredding them into pieces and scattering them in the hedgerows like 70's porn mags, hoping someone could piece them together).
Martin was the joker, a pleasant lad, a family man if I recall. And then there was Kirk, a mountain of a guy. I first encountered him at Wigan Pier's weekly Wednesday Alternative/Goth/New Wave night, his shock of black hair backcombed into a Robert Smith peacock crown, in stark contrast to his death-white make-up.
He had quite a good job as I recall, that involved extensive travelling so he drove a BMW company car. He once told me that he got pulled over and sent to prove ownership of it so many times that in the end, the judge swore to jail the next cop who did so. It was the 80s, but imagine plod seeing Arnie from Terminator cruising past in Siouxsie make-up.
They never gigged a great deal if I recall (and when they did they were ready for projectiles; spit, bottles or just verbal abuse, and took it as an occupational hazard or badge of honour even), but their practice sessions seemed to be enough of a male-bonding Friday night crack to keep them sane.
In any scene or situation, like in a company for example, there are those ruthlessly ambitious types who want to rise to the top, and those who just turn up, do the work and try to have a laugh while doing it.
The Unholy Row were happy to be part of the St Helens Music Scene, that often congregated around The Dead Fly. They out-lived, out-played, and out-drank many of our transient customers.
They didn't take themselves too seriously and they used music as a way to connect with other people, and in today's fame-grasping climate their kind are sorely missed. (I suspect they are still together...°
