Tuesday, 6 October 2015

Jump Around



Actually they get a few mentions, and a whole scene set there in the chapter "Ever Fallen In Love With Someone You Shouldn't've".


With all the flashing lights and the bobbing bodies it was hard to tell if the room was spinning, or he was. They danced, a manly triangle on the royal-blue resin dancefloor. Ben’s efforts to get any women to join them had failed, and Mark’s one attempt – smiling at two girls dancing nearby – had scared them to the other side of the dancefloor. So he had another drink and was content to swagger. At least it was indie night, and the baggy music was a comfortably loose fit to his ears.

Ben danced with a bottle in his hand. His moves involved pelvic thrusts every so often. Mark dodged out of the way whenever it looked like a thrust was pointing at him. Bulldog’s dancing resembled a boxer with the twitch. Yeah, they were hot stuff.

A whistle kicked in with an irresistible laid-back beat: Mark knew the song even before Shaun Ryder accused him of twisting melons. He leaned over to Dave, “Track 8! Step On!” Mark yelled. “The Happy’s best album, 1990!”


Dave turned away, as if he hadn’t heard Mark’s words.


Mark started his bow-backed swagger, shoulders jerking to the indie jingle-jangle sound. He leaned over to Ben this time.


“This is better than the Kongos original because of the
attitude.”

Ben just shooed him away. No matter. Mark rolled his mouth and slurred the words, stepped and muttered while hands hung down on rubber arms, wobbling from those stampin’ dancin’ feet, head nodding, traffic noise like angry car horns whizzing past Stretford Arndale, sound of the streets. He was a music star, a highlife whistling man of happiness, legs open to the chunka thunka loose beat and wailing guitars. Be a man, step up or get stepped on, it’s a world of conflict, no peace here except in escape: drugs, sex, raves, booze, rock ’n’ roll, the ever-present icons of the album. Like Bez himself, the constant that keeps it together, part of the band’s identity, a dancing logo, a walking riff, a stomp of identity. For now, at least, it was part of him. Figgy pudding, this was the good stuff.


[2000 Tunes, p34.]
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