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Ballad of a Hard Woman	By : Saoirse Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Thin Lizzy Views: 846 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know the members of Thin Lizzy. This is a work of fiction. No money made from this story. All lyrics/song titles belong to Lizzy and their affiliated artists. Do not sue please.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
A/N: I will not bother with formal numerical citations as there are too many. Birthdates and places are from the Thin Lizzy Wikipedia entry. Alan Byrne's book was the source for childhood background info (chapter A New Beginning). See Thinlizzyguide.com for Hammersmith Odeon thank-you concert dates and information. Christine Wiltshire's meeting was based on real events told in Putterford's book in the chapter entitled Pills, Powders & Potions. Thin Lizzy discography and chart positions are from Wikipedia. Featured song Look What the Wind Blew In, written by Phil Lynott (Thin Lizzy, 1971 Decca).

Chapter I: Look What the Wind Blew In

July 1976, London, Phonogram Records Promotions Department

“Christine!”

She bolted up from her typewriter, puffy-eyed with a drool crust on her cheek. Standing to her right was Karen MacAlpin, the receptionist, holding the phone.

“What’s the matter Karen?” She slurred. Karen slapped the receiver in Christine’s palm.

“Mrs. Prosser, line two.” Her little breathy Scottish burr was a reflection of the 20-year-old’s diminutive stature. The hold switch blinked. “She says it’s urgent.” She clicked the switch and Christine rallied herself.

“Phonogram Promotions, Christine Wiltshire speaking.”

While in the lift Christine tucked and smoothed her hair as best she could judging her image in the warped steel. She was told to meet her boss in Nigel Grainge’s office, Phonogram’s A&R manager. She knocked on the ripple glass.

“Yes?” Nigel’s voice said from the other side.

“It’s Christine Wiltshire, Mr. Grainge.”

“Come in! Come in!” Christine entered Nigel’s smoke-filled miniscule office to see him making a groove into the carpet. “Yes! Yes, Miss Lynott. I understand… doctor’s orders are to have him straight back to Manchester afterwards. Understood, miss. But you know your son can be obstinate- even about his own health!” He ripped the phone from his head when a female’s tinny voice screeched from the earpiece.

“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t know about my own son! Cheeky bastard!”

     “And they say lead singer syndrome isn’t something innate.” Fleur Prosser remarked. Nigel rolled his eyes and lit up another cigarette.
     “Christine!” The junior promoter brightened at her mentor’s recognition.
     “Mrs. Prosser, Mr. Grainge.” Prosser got up from her small leather chair.
     “Sit down.” Christine obeyed and Fleur perched herself at the corner of Nigel’s desk.
     “Well now, Christine,” Nigel spoke rubbing his hands, “I trust you’ve had a nice rest. I know your work in the Midlands can be, um, on the treacherous side.”
     “They are metal bands, Mr. Grainge.” Christine said. “But I’m hardy enough.” She touted.
     “Are we now?” Fleur tapped ash from her cigarette.
     “How long have you been with us Christine? Since leaving uni? Three years?”
     “Yes sir.”
     “So that would make you, what, 25?”
     “This month sir.”
     “Then I’d say a promotion would be a most fitting gift for the quarter-century mark!” Fleur announced. Christine was floored. After more than two years slogging it in the amphetamines-soaked Midlands, someone finally took notice. She was beginning to lose hope and considered taking a waitressing job at one of the 15 pubs she made the rounds with Vertigo’s guitar and glitter hairspray/lipstick freak shows time and again.
     “I gather you know Thin Lizzy?” Fleur asked.
     “Who doesn’t know The Boys Are Back in Town? That single’s spinning in every club from Colchester to Aberdeen!”
     “Number one in Ireland, and #8 in the UK.” Nigel said.
     “And went #12 in the US.” Fleur added.
     “Jailbreak sold 1.5 million, certified gold, taking the #10 spot.” Christine finished up. “It was their third album under the Vertigo banner… and their last chance.” She whooshed. “What a Hollywood story.”
     “Hmm… typical of the biz.” Fleur said cynically. “Makes great PR though.”
     “What happened to their big American tour? Why’d they cancel?” Nigel groaned creakily, dropping into his beat up desk chair.
     “Their frontman, Phil Lynott, contracted hepatitis.” He said, massaging his temple.
     “You’re kidding!” Christine gasped. “There’s no cure for it, and how did the others not catch it?”
     “That’s the luck of the Irish for you, darling.” Fleur shrugged.
     “Well he’s recovered mostly; I was on the phone with his mum.” Nigel gestured to the phone. “Doctors have prohibited him from drinking a drop, and miracles of miracles, he actually fucking took their advice! But he’s to get back to Manchester straight after Sunday night for the remainder of his treatment.”
     “What’s Sunday night?” Christine asked.
     “A little thank you concert at the Hammy-O,” Fleur informed her. “To which you have to make your appearance at too.”
     “Lynott’s mad! It’ll be bedlam! He’ll faint dead away under those lights!”
     “You don’t know Phil, Christine.” Nigel laughed unsteadily. “He’s got the constitution of a steel ox!”
     “Which makes you an iron angel!” Fleur exclaimed. “I’ll admit Frank Murray was a bit tentative when he learned we were sending over a junior promoter. But since I recommended you personally, he thought it best to look you over first.”
     “Who’s Frank Murray?” Christine queried. Fleur guided her up from the chair and steered her to the door.
     “He’s Lizzy’s tour manager. Chris Morrison is their bank manager, and Chris O’Donnell is the company’s rep. Now come along, I’ve notified the box office and security you’ll be turning up, considering the, ah, guest list has been suspended.”
     “What a Hollywood story…” Christine sighed.
     “Hollywood stories, Hollywood hunks, you never know what the future may bring Christine.” Fleur opened the door and Christine took a step out backward. “Curtain call in two and you need to do your homework young lady. Prove you’ve got Lizzy legs! I have complete faith in you.” And the door was shut in her face.

#    #    #

     July 11, Hammersmith Odeon, Thin Lizzy’s Thank-you Concert
     Christine turned up late deliberately, as the supporting act was of no interest to her. The Odeon’s manager met her personally and escorted her backstage. She tucked herself behind the mixing desk silently looking on as Lizzy’s engineer Peter Eustace worked his magic. The roadies and techs in their white Lizzy tees scurried like mice in a maze tuning guitars, replacing strings, refilling beer cups, and getting fresh towels. A towering long-haired blonde man dashed up to the right side of the stage in a running crouch with an open bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label.
     The manager reappeared telling Christine that Murray and Morrison were courting the press at the moment. Murray also relayed to her to let the band settle down before she went to the dressing room. Two encores were to be expected. Christine scanned the open corridor for any Phonogram execs, but the only suit around was the Odeon manager.
     The mass orgasm blanketing the theatre from the tiers left her speechless. The decibels the band was putting out would leave her with ringing ears for a week! Under the billion flashing lights Thin Lizzy stomped, spun, undulated, jumped, kicked, head banged, hair whipped, threw every shape imaginable, and thrust their guitar necks into the audience like bayonets. They came out guns a-blazing, leaving blood all over the stage. Lizzy were energy vampires, feeding off their frenzied fans, getting off on the music and each other. Christine was convinced that Thin Lizzy was the ultimate live act.
     Thin Lizzy was the brain child, company, lover, and life of its bassist, lead vocalist, and principal lyricist, Philip Parris Lynott. Born under an unlucky star as an illegitimate half-caste to Irishwoman Philomena Lynott, and a Guyanese soldier, Cecil Parris, in the West Midlands on 20 August 1949. After spending the first few years of his life in a Manchester slum, Philomena sent her only child back to Ireland to be raised by her parents as she took on several jobs to survive.
     Growing up in the hardscrabble neighborhood of Crumlin, Phil’s early childhood would be marred by apathy and intolerance. Ireland’s Catholic culture frowned upon Philomena’s aggressiveness, which was present, if not stronger in Phil. But his faith in God and undying love for his mum seemingly neutralized any suffering. In time Phil became accepted and popular amongst his peers. Like any child he was raised on a steady diet of love and excitement, cowboy adventures at the pictures, Manchester United, Marvel comics, Dr. Who- he was the first in the neighborhood to get a clockwork Daleks from Philomena- American detective programs, Celtic mythology, and most importantly, music.
     Phil was a natural singing talent, and being the only black kid just elevated him into stardom. Gradually learning the bass, and imitating his idol Jimi Hendrix, his band Skid Row was proving to be one of the popular club acts in the nearly nonexistent Dublin rock scene. After being sacked from Skid Row, Phil hooked up with an old schoolmate, a half-pint drummer that could make an earthquake with a single cymbal crash. Brian Michael Downey born in Dublin on 27 January 1951 appears withdrawn, but in reality he is your typical rock drummer: going 100 MPH and everything you say is fine with him. They formed the band Orphanage, but when that went to the wall, they recruited former showband guitarist Eric Bell in the midst of an acid trip after a gig to start a new group. Bell christened the new band Thin Lizzy, a snarky play off the name of The Beano comic strip, Tin Lizzie. Initially Phil and Brian derided it, but in time it grew on them like fungus, and Lizzy began to spread.
     After crossing the Irish Sea to London, Decca signed the Lizzy trio and they released three albums. Their first self-titled album was composed on the fly in the studio and sunk without a trace. Their second album Shades of a Blue Orphanage produced their unlikely breakout hit single Whiskey In The Jar going #1 in the Irish charts, and #6 in the UK. Their third and last album under Decca, Vagabonds of the Western World, failed to make an impact; unfortunately it was about this time when Eric Bell began to feel the brunt of success. His fall into drink and drugs reached its apex at a New Year’s Eve gig when he had a nervous breakdown, fucked up the performance, and quit the band the following day.
     His replacement was another one of Phil’s friends, Belfaster blues-rock guitar prodigy, Gary Moore. Theirs was a love-hate-more-love-more-hate relationship. Their brand of rock n’ roll hedonism overtopped onto the stage, and despite the great respect they had for each other as musicians, they parted ways by 1974.
     It was Phil’s subtle genius and shrewd business sense that inspired him to recruit not one, but two lead guitarists should any problems surface. And why shouldn’t he? It was quite a unique sound and look for the rock bands of the day, Wishbone Ash and The Allman Brothers made it their standards. Enter a ginger-haired teenage Glaswegian nutter with a short fuse. Brian David Robertson a.k.a. Robbo was born 12 September 1956 in Renfrewshire. He was educated in music theory and classically trained in piano and cello before switching to the guitar. His preferred style was blues-jazz-rock, and was a major Lizzy fan prior to joining the band at 18. And if he wasn’t a gifted musician, he’d more than likely be serving a life sentence. Fights, whiskey, and speed made up Robbo’s constitution, and his were the integral spice that made Lizzy the fightingest band on the UK rock scene. But Phil’s quartet was still a trio, and he was determined to find the second guitarist to fill those big Lizzy platform boots.
     That fateful day Lizzy set their headquarters up at the Iroquo Country Club behind the Belsize Park tube station. The mean and depressing weather mirrored the band’s mood as the endless procession of idiots that auditioned left Phil wondering if he settled on one of them would there be much dignity in his band to put it onstage. And then walked in the weirdest sight yet. Having searched for hours in a downpour, the wannabe thankfully dragged himself into the dark club with the African mask wall hangings that spooked him. But when he checked out his would-be bandmates (an anti-social drummer, a cranky guitarist, and a black dude dressed up like the Mad Hatter) he pondered at the quality of Ruan O’Lochlainn’s weed for him to send him on this bizarre little quest.
     ‘Hi, Scott Gorham.’
     A mental collective groan rippled the air upon hearing his American accent.
     Born William Scott Gorham Jr. 17 March 1951 (St. Paddy’s Day, quite an omen) in Los Angeles, California, Thin Lizzy’s second lead guitarist had 30 days left on a six month visa to try his luck on the British rock scene that he’d been salivating over since he was a kid. Raised with his younger sister Vicki in the quiet middle-class suburb of Glendale, his Michigander tough-as-nails Irish mother Mary was ready to check herself into the nuthouse after nine-year-old Scott, yet again, wrecked the living room bouncing around with an old tennis racket pretending to be Dick Dale. His Iowa-born WASP father, Bill Sr., had a more practical solution. That Christmas he gave his little bundle of bucktoothed hell a cheap nylon stringed guitar.
     ‘Cool! How the hell does it work?’ Scott spewed opening the box. And after a nice lump formed on the back of his head on behalf of Mary, Bill let his boy in on a little secret: he knew how to make it work.
     Four years later when the British invasion hit, Scott watched in awe as a quad of Liverpudlians with mop-tops and matching suits take choreographed bows after every number on Ed Sullivan, and wondered how in fuck could he do that. Not long after he went to his junior high dance with his first girlfriend Becky Manoogian, and playing was a five-piece called The Original Continentals. Not once did Scott dance because all night he stood to the side of the stage mesmerized by the sound they were making. To his thirteen-year-old ears it was nirvana, but the teachers thought they were shitty. Despite the fact that Becky called him a dickhead and dumped him on the spot, Scott went home alone determined, and the next day he started a band with two of his friends. The drummer was in the school band, and the other guy, Steve Schrage, played guitar, so the only thing that was left was the bass, and while Scott didn’t know what that was, as long as it got him into a band he’d sure as hell learn it.
     They called themselves The Jesters because people thought they were funnier rather than musically-inclined. The Jesters played huge parties, anywhere and everywhere, and their set was a load of fun three-chord surf rock. Scott floated from one band to the next as a bassist throughout high school, managing to hook up with Schrage in one way or another. Several years prior to emigrating, Scott was in the improv band RHS with Schrage and Bob Siebenberg on skins. Scott thought Bobby was quite the mensch, and it helped some that Vicki took a liking to him (they were hitched as soon as she graduated high school). But Scott’s world was thrown off kilter when Schrage got killed in a motorcycle crash. He holed up in his room for two days crying his eyes out. When the band reformed after a brief mourning period, Scott stunned everybody when he took Schrage’s spot on lead guitar. He was a proficient bassist, but he only touched the six string behind closed doors. It was the least he could do for Stevie.
While touring the Hollywood clubs Bobby made contact with some British musicians and decided to make a go of it in Merry Old England. Two years later Vicki wrote to Scott that Bobby won the audition to be Supertramp’s drummer, and a slot for a guitarist might be open. Thankfully Mary and Bill Gorham supported their son’s musical aspirations (it was the only thing he was motivated to do and was good at), but they made it clear that Scott was to pay for his first passport, visa, and plane ticket.
     Gigging made Scott a few bucks, but a day job was a requirement, even though he was still living at home. Taking a job at his father’s contracting business was tempting because the money was good, but he couldn’t risk injuring his hands. And it was physically demanding, so he couldn’t play a gig nodding off to sleep. The other problem was when Scott and his friends weren’t blowing all their cash on booze, it was on anything they could snort, smoke, or swallow. It’s not a cop out to say that drugs are just part of the music culture. He ended up taking a job stacking records in the warehouse of ABC Records, and then ripped off as many as he could to sell in order to finance his trip. Scott arrived in England just after the new year in ’74.
     Bobby and Vicki gave him a warm welcome at Heathrow and then they drove to the countryside where Supertramp (along with their wives and girlfriends) was living in this ramshackle country house that resembled a hippie commune. The whole setup sucked ass, and it was made worse when Scott found out that Roger Hodgson decided to take up keyboarding and guitar duties. The only positive thing to come out of it was Scott’s first recording studio experience, and both he and Vicki provided backing vocals to the track Hide in Your Shell for the band’s new album. When all was said and done Scott couldn’t afford to rot in the damn countryside, so he decided to take the next logical step and move to London. He befriended Bobby’s old Bees Make Honey bandmate Ruan O’Lochlainn, and helped him break into the pub rock scene.
     Scott poached a few other musicians and slapped together the band Fast Buck that steadily gigged in the East End. Living on £12 a week only afforded him a pub grub diet of lager and fish and chips that made his delicate American palette cringe. Oh they had Wimpy’s but just wasn’t the same.
     Fast Buck was going nowhere fast, and before he knew it his visa was soon to expire. Then O’Lochlainn came to one of the gigs, they had a pint, smoked a spliff, and shot the shit for a bit.
     ‘Listen, hope you don’t mind, but I put your name forward for a band that’s looking for a guitarist.’ O’Lochlainn said.
     ‘What’re they called?’ Scott asked.
     ‘Thin Lizzy.’
     ‘Are you sure? That’s the stupidest fuckin’ name for a rock band!’
     And so it came to pass that an American stood in the Irish Court of Thin Lizzy.
     ‘OK, whip out your gear and let’s get started.’ Phil said. Scott pulled out his Japanese Les Paul copy. Robbo and Downey rolled their eyes, Phil puffed his cig dispassionately. Then a knob fell off, and Scott looked up to see the three ready to die. He was forced to sell his Strat to Bobby to afford the squat he was rooming in. Phil regrouped and set up his bass. ‘We’ll do The Rocker.’
He taught him the basic chords and nodded at Scott to take the solos. Crickets chirped. Was it OK? The whole thing was made even more awkward when Phil jumped off stage and vanished into a back room. After five minutes the afro-headed man came back and they ran through another song. Then back into the room he went.
Is this guy some sort of dick, or what?
This went on for six songs, and Scott didn’t know if he was more confused or frustrated.
Well, that was a pile of shit!
He was packing up when Phil handed him a slip of paper with his number on it. Later that night as Scott was enjoying some primo Buddha Thai the squat manager banged on his door screaming that he had a phone call.
‘Yeah, Scott man, it’s me.’
‘Phil?’
‘Yeah. We’ve been listening to the tapes, and we’d like you to join.’
‘Tapes? What tapes?’ It was so nonsensical, that it made perfect sense. Phil was such a perfectionistic control freak that he recorded his audition. This was one of many idiosyncrasies that would be part of Lizzy’s genetic makeup. Disorganization was the organization, and regardless of who you were, you didn’t question it.
And it was the reason why- despite how good they were- Lizzy seemed determined to not make top billing in the US. Christine shut her leather portfolio, she spent two days gathering all the info she could find on these yobbos. How in fuck was she supposed sell them? Were they pop? Were they rock? Were they metal? Were they jazz? Were they blues? She blew smoke and crushed out her Dunne Hill. She was too dizzy to finish it. The roadies were nice enough; she helped herself to the booze, and threw some more port into her cup. Looking down the corridor to Lizzy’s dressing room she sighed into her drink.
They were none of the above. They were just crazy as a den of foxes, with cool to burn.
A roadie tapped her shoulder. “You can go in now. Frank’ll be in shortly.”
“Thank you.” Slipping on her messenger bag Christine approached the dressing room and knocked. The door flew open and she was face-to-face with the huge Johnny Walker blonde.
“Whaddayawant?!” He barked. Another crazy Scotsman… Christine’s resolve evaporated.
“I’d like to see Phil Lynott please.” She said keeping her voice as steady as humanly possible.
Johnny Walker sneered. It was sort of like seeing one of those yappy little dogs snap its teeth at him. Pollyanna was well spoken and looked pretty clean, but by the way she hugged that leather book she seemed in need of some oxygen.
“Oh yeah? Lotsa girls want ta see Phil Lynott- fuck off!” And the door slammed in Christine’s face. She walked like a zombie halfway up the corridor when- and she was far from religious- her recently departed Scottish granny’s ghost punted her straight up the ass!
Fuck off? That Highlander (Gran always said that sort came from the hinterlands) had some balls…
Lizzy was still unwinding, procrastinating really, from changing into their street clothes. Much to Phil’s consternation he watched the boys fill up on drink as he sipped orange juice. Robbo smirked at Phil’s frowning then nudged Scott to have a go at him. The Scotsman shook a can of Heineken and ripped off the tab letting loose a jet spray of foam on the American’s frayed mane.
“Hey fuckhead!” Scott threw a half full cup of brandy on Robbo. Downey exploded into giggles and joined in with the Moet bottle.
“You’re all assholes!” Phil yelled grousing at his mates’ exaggerated beer fight. But everything came to a halt when they heard what sounded like a hippo slamming against the door.
WHAM!
“I’M CHRISTINE WILTSHIRE FROM PHONOGRAM! YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME- ASK FRANK MURRAY!!!”
The band glared at their blonde security chief (who was also Robbo’s friend from their roadie days) ‘Big Charlie’ McLennan.
“Ah shit! It’s Frank’s new chick!” He ripped the door open and saw Christine with her chest heaving and her strawberry blonde hair every which way. “Well why didn’t you say so?” He took her arm. “Come in!”
“BASTARD!” And she knocked him backward with her bag. “YOU FERAL HIGHLANDER!” Big Charlie could do nothing but curl up into a defensive position with his arms folded over his head. Christine wailed on the big man, the band stood tensely, the situation was frankly hilarious because the woman stood no taller than Downey- in heels- plus they didn’t want a lawsuit. So the best solution was to watch this grandiose asskicking.
“…And if you ever touch me again, I will rip every single hair from your head, and make you watch as I put it IN A BREVILLE!!!” The last bit she bellowed in Big Charlie’s ear.
“Yeah! Yeah!” He waved his hands in a surrendering fashion. “Okay! Just… okay!” Poker faces firmly back on the band, Phil conjured up an intimidating enough look to rile up Christine. “Hey Phil, this is the new bird from the record company.” Big Charlie was just able to catch his breath. Phil stood up to his impressive 6’1” height, and grunted under his breath. He circled her slowly, eyeing her up and down like a Sergeant Major inspecting a soldier. Christine, however, was at the end of her rope but held tight under a hopefully stoic enough mien.
“What do they call ya again?” Phil asked.
“Christine Wiltshire.”
“How’d ya spell it?” He folded his wiry arms over his chest.
“Surname or given name?”
“Whatever the hell they call you.” Christine fluttered her eyes, poleaxed, simply for the fact that she was never without her gold name necklace.
“C-H-R-I-S-T-I-N-E.” Robbo pulled a face, Christine’s concentration was broken, and the first stage of the Phil Lynott Initiation Ceremony was complete. Phil knew Christine wasn’t stupid, just easily distracted.
“Eh,” Phil pinched his sinuses, “where you from?”
“S- sorry?” Christine said barely catching on.
“I said where are you from? I like to know where my people come from, says things about their manners, you know.”
“What the fuck?” Scott mouthed.
“Yes- sorry!”
“That’s a very annoying habit,” Phil shook his head, “you need to quit that.” He chided Christine. “I’ll not have you look like a sycophant in my company.” Christine nodded furiously. “And if you do, there’ll be hell to pay.” She sweat bullets, but resisted the urge to dab her forehead. She knew she would be lucky to have her life at the end of this.
Robbo pressed his face into Downey’s shoulder, muffling his laughter. Stage two, check.
“I was raised in Birmingham, and born in Victoria, Hong Kong.” She informed Phil.
He deadpanned her for ten long seconds, then looked up at his mates said, “Well fuck me. We got a FILTHY one here.”
Robbo, Scott, and Brian saw Christine’s reflection; her face bled a new shade of white before falling. Stage three, check.
Failed in London, Try Hong Kong summarized the lives of Evelyn and St. John Wiltshire. Regardless of that, Lynott may have a gold record and scores of willing and nubile young concubines, but who in fuck was he to judge her?!
“Excuse me Mr. Lynott, but I must speak candidly here.”
“Phil.” He said.
“What?”
“None of that ‘Mr. Lynott’ crap!” And he wagged his finger in her face like a schoolteacher. “Your English propriety is condescending!” Robbo, Scott, and Downey devoured Phil’s masterful bullshit bollocking. Little chickie however, was bleeding from the bombs Phil lobbed at her. “And what is that?” He pointed at her bag. Christine weakly lifted up her bag and figured he was pointing to the pin on the flap.
“You mean this?”
“You some sorta Scout?” He stooped forward, fists on his skinny hips. “At your age?” Downey was dying, teeth sunk into his fist.
“Girl Guide? God, Evelyn would’ve had a heart attack at the suggestion…” Christine said dizzily.
“Eh?!” Phil said.
“No, this is my Birmingham University lapel pin.”
“Oh well then! She’ll be throwin’ her degrees about in everyone’s faces now, won’t she?!” Robbo went off like a powder keg.
Shit! I forgot there were three more!
Christine spun and saw the drummer and two guitarists more than ready for their thrashing.
“And you can take that off your face!” Downey said pointing at Christine. She was unaware that she was protectively holding her portfolio against her mouth until Scott reached out and swiped it.
“I’ll take that.” He rudely hovered over Christine. She hated to admit it, but if Gorham was trying to hypnotize her, it was working. Thin Lizzy’s teen idol from across the pond was a freaky one though; then again My Guy wasn’t exactly GQ. He had girlish plumpy lips, bear trap teeth, a positively huge nose, and she could tell his eyes were so big that if he didn’t look stoned all the time (which he probably was- typical Californian- even if he was the first she’d met) they seemed so protrusive they resembled the side effect of a certain thyroid condition.
And then he dropped them right into her cleavage.
Scott made an unimpressed face and rolled a shoulder.
That hurt. Sixteen years in ballet, and Christine lost all hope at ever hitting puberty. He fell into his chair and leafed through her notes.
“Check this, profiles on us.”
“Swotting away for teacher.” Robbo taunted.
“It’s the way I work Mr. Robertson.”
“Condescension!” Downey trumpeted. Scott dropped the portfolio on his table, when she made a move for it he deliberately rested his arm on it. He lit his cig (American brand) with a cheap lighter.
Christine tightened her jaw and Scott blew smoke through his teeth. She curled her hand into a fist against her leg. He tapped his thumb on the leather, baiting her. It had a hitchhiker’s bent.
C’mon, try it. I fuckin’ dare ya. I double dog dare ya.
It was like when he and Vicki were kids. He’d sneak into the back yard when she was playing tea party and rip off a doll, then tear down the street lightning fast. She’d do nothing but scream and cry at the top of her lungs. And only when Mom would rip off his ear would he give up the doll. Good times. But Queenie here would rather slit her own throat over doing something as releasing as cry in front of him. He watched her do a little mental mathematics.
Christine’s lengthy experience with metalheads inspired her to skim the guitar textbook of The School of Rock. Gorham’s signature Les Paul was a straight up piece of mahogany. It weighed a shit ton. And running up and down a stage for two hours every night provided a hell of a cardio workout. She recalled an interview of his in Melody Maker:
‘I got into maybe two fights as a kid. Within 18 months of joining Lizzy I was in more than a dozen. Now I’m Joe Fuckin’ Lewis!’
Scott’s hands were a bit big, his fingers weren’t particularly long, and his nails were stubby. Not worth it.
“Mr. Downey,” he made a show of rolling his eyes, “I fail to see how a normal show of professional deference is condescending.” Scott picked up Downey’s slack.
“Chrissie honey-”
“Excuse me, Christine.” Scott gave her a sleepy disbelieving look. “I find ‘Chrissie’ to be juvenile and patronizing. And I never allowed it even when I was a child.”
“Y’see Chrissie honey,” her long purple nails cut into her palms, “nobody really gives a shit what you call us. It’s your attitude.” Christine wasn’t enraged per se, but she was curious to see if the next thing to come out of the yank’s mouth would interest her in normalizing his teeth. “When I used to gig at parties over at USC, then and only then would the sorositutes give us play.” Her knuckles cracked. “So the point I’m trying to make Chrissie sweetie, is to not bother kissing our asses if you’re gonna walk around thinking we’re not good enough to wipe your shoes on.” Scott sucked his teeth insolently pointing to her feet. “And cheap-ass shoes, I might add.” He turned his back on her fixing his hair.
Christine lifted her frayed flares hems and was made aware of the scuff marks on her T-strap pumps. She had to bite her lip to keep the tears at bay. Scott smirked at Phil’s reflection for approval.
Wait for it…
Christine took a calming breath and exhaled through her mouth. She set down her bag and pulled the tails of her black lace shrug down righting it. She clasped her hands behind her back and took two steps forward so that she stood not directly behind Scott but close enough.
“Your Bicentennial was last week, correct?” Christine asked.
“Yeah. So what about it?” He drummed his fingers absently on the portfolio.
“And to think all that blessed debauchery wouldn’t be possible,” and she leaned down by his ear, “without us.”
Rounding a corner were Frank Murray and Chris Morrison. Keeping the press away was tougher than expected; Ritchie Blackmore had a big fucking mouth! Okay Phil and the lads loved to wind up the headliners- they were in crushing form at the time- but when Phil’s scleras turned yellow and he was drowning in his own sweat at the eleventh hour on the Rainbow tour, it was time to pull the goddamn plug.
“We have to get Phil outta here now if they’re to start recording next week.” Morrison said glancing at his watch. “You know anything about the hotel we’ll be at?”
Frank scoffed. “Don’t expect five stars. Phonogram might be the one who signs their cheques, but it’s PolyGram’s money. They’ve laid down certain budget restrictions, considering how much they love fucking their studio time away.”
“I’ll let you break the news to Phil.”
“Anyway what with Alcock on board again they might be too distracted to give a shit if-” An enormous crash from the dressing room cut Frank off. “Oh fuck me!” The two managers burst in to see Scott on his ass cradling his head with Christine standing over him holding her portfolio in a very threating manner. “Oh fuck me…”
Christine squat down beside Gorham who wisely kept his head covered. “If you think that I’m going to allow you to treat me like gutter trash because you believe that I think you’re an incompetent nothing without that bit of wood on your hip based purely on the fact that I have an ability to attain a degree, then I need you to hear this: I THINK YOU’RE AN INCOMPETENT NOTHING WITH OR WITHOUT THAT BIT OF FUCKING WOOD ON YOUR HIP! And now Gorham, you may take your stars and stripes and shove it up your ass!” She emphasized her last remark knocking him flat on his back. Christine gathered her things and walked into a pair of suited men. “Misters Murray and Morrison?”
“Yes, Miss Wiltshire-” Frank began.
“I am Christine Wiltshire, hello there.” She shook their hands.
“Good evening Miss Wiltshire.” Morrison’s eyes darted from Christine’s hand to Scott’s prostrate body.
“And now goodbye.” She marched through Lizzy’s managers and straight out the door.
“Miss Wiltshire!” Frank called after her in a panic. “You’ve really fucked it now, haven’t you?!” He shouted at the band. “Miss Wiltshire, wait!”
She didn’t need this job. She’d been in worse with the metal freaks. Christine was bamboozled into babysitting Burke Shelley (she locked herself in the bath) as he freebased coke nattering about Jesus while his manager went on a frenetic all-night search for a doctor. She thought that was rock bottom. Then Thin Lizzy took up spades and combed the mud for cigarette butts.
“Christine, please!” Frank called out hot on her heels. She rounded on Frank ready to fire back when peals of riotous laughter emitted from the dressing room. Christine looked wide-eyed at Frank then ran back in.
“What the hell!” Thin Lizzy were in hysterics, even Big Charlie couldn’t hold it together.
In the dismal darkness
I have sat and gazed, amazed
At the blazing factories
Like the lonely man
Who stands on the seashore
And I am afraid
As weary as I am
I try
I seem to see that things look ok
Run, run in your skin
Look what the wind just blew in
But no one was worse than Scott Gorham. Still on his back, red-faced, and unfazed by Christine’s lashing. Morrison pat her shoulder reassuringly, and in the five minutes she’d known the managers they seemed to age five years. They also appeared to be the only ones in this flying circus in possession of sympathy and logic.
“I think Christine,” Frank said to her, “you’re going to do just fine.”
Many lovely ladies
I have felt, touched
And I was not afraid
I took them out dancing
Out romancing
And I was not afraid
Then somewhere from the north
This gale I knew just flew in
And I am afraid
Run, run in your skin
Look what the wind just blew in
Run, run in your skin
Look what the wind just blew in
Run, you got to run in your skin
Look what the wind just blew in
Look what the wind just blew in
You got to look what the wind just blew in
You got to look what the wind just blew in
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Ballad of a Hard Woman