The Filth & The Fatwa by Julie Parsons

The Filth
&
The Fatwa

An interview with a Sex Patel for the NME
By
Julie Parsons

October 1979

I like Bradford. It’s grey, dirty and Northern, not much smiling going on, teeth are full of grit and gum. Men still wear flat caps up here in Yorkshire and the young girls bite their own lips to force a colour. Unlike London, where it’s all torn leather and Elvis Costello Irony.

I’ve come all this way, up the M1 with Tom, our photographer, (his red Cortina, homemade sarnies, a flask of Mellow Birds), to see Joy Division and the Buzzcocks do a show at the St Georges Hall. The gig was ok, Ian Curtis flaying about as usual, Pete Shelley wearing too much make up. The audience were wild, mainly male, tight jeans and buttoned up shirts, sexy in rough way. The talk in the bar was of football, fags and fists. If there were any art students here (how they love Joy Division), I did not see any. I pften wondered if local boy, David Hockney ever heard of the band? Maybe not, because they are from over the Moors, in Manchester and not Los Angeles.

Tom got some nice shots of the audience and that was all he could do really. We were not allowed backstage. The Joy Division guru Tony Wilson and his little gaggle of sycophants would not let us through to the backstage area because they feared we’d would do a hatchet job on the band (which is true, I was, and have. See next weeks NME for details), he told us to fuck off back to London in no uncertain terms. It makes no difference to me of course, music mythology is all made up by the likes of me and me mates, the bands and their close-knit cohorts know nothing. It’s all about the mathematics of mayhem. They should love us really.

Tom and I go for a curry afterwards instead (excellent) and then retire to our beds at the Great Victoria Hotel (not so excellent, damp sheets). We do not want to stay up, the north is not that great after all to tell the truth, it’s bloody cold and frankly, we’ve no drugs with us to get us through. I wish I had though, because things are about to go out of kilter.

At about 2am, there is a rasping knock on my hotel room door. I think it might be Tom, having actually located some drugs or something. I can’t sleep anyway and am reading a copy of A Kestrel for a Knave that has been left by the bedside cabinet along with a copy of yesterdays The Sun; I’m smoking a lot and drinking cheap wine, what is a girl to do in the North? I walk to the door and open it. No one there, just the sepia lit corridor. I’m not that bothered, might have been a member of staff making an error, or a pissed trades union member on the lash for anything he can get. They have been hanging around all afternoon and evening, drinking beer and demanding sandwiches from the bar. I close the door, but notice a folded and gravy stained sheet of paper on the carpet below me. It reads:

The Sex Patels invite you to talk.
11am, 46 Maple Road, Bradford. No photographers and no shoes

I knew something about the above, but not too much. My partner and co journalist at the NME, Tony Burchill, mentioned and played something to me by people called the Sex Patels a few months ago. He said he had received something in the post, a single, with just the name ‘Patel 1’ branded in the centre. I think it was a version of Atmosphere, the Joy Division song, I remember I quite liked it but was too busy with a Joe Strummer piece about him being a disgraceful public school boy that I making up on the spot to give the song my full attention. I remember Tony raving about it though, no change there of course, Tony would rave about a digestive biscuit.

I call Tony in the morning, this hotel room really is awful, and the loo does not flush. Tony has been out with Charles Murray Sharr to the 100 Club and is the worse for wear. Apparently, there is going to be a skiffle revival later this year. Tony says he will invent it for next week’s issue. That’s all we need, bottle top music for the newly rich. I ask him about the Sex Patels and tell him about the piece of paper in my hotel room. He threatens to get on the next train from Kings Cross. I say that’s great, be good to see him, then give him a fake address in Leeds.

I suggest to Tom that he go out and get some earthy shots of Bradford teenagers, some filler material. I’ve ordered a cab to Maple Road though; I’m unusually excited. I wear black patent high heel boots.

For a start. 46 Maple Road does not exist. It runs out after 40. The road itself is grim. Cars on bricks, a dead cat on the road. The houses are detached, Victorian with blackened net curtains. The cab driver drops me off and I feel like a fool. Children with dirty mouths staring at me from windows. Are their schools up here? I light another cigarette and am tapped on the back.

‘Don’t turn around.’

I try to but am physically, yet gently stopped.

‘Put this cloth around your eyes. I will tie it for you. Take off your shoes. Then follow me.’
‘Who are you?’ I ask.
‘Follow me.’

A soft hand leads me into a room; I cannot work out if the voice is female. I think it is. It’s defiantly local though. Their is kindness in it. I am told to sit down and am offered tea. I decline. I am very scared. Then a male voice.

‘Welcome Julie. We are the Sex Patels. We do not want you to speak, just to listen. Afterwards we will make a statement and you can go. We will ot harm you if you listen’

‘But..’
‘Do not speak, listen.’

There are more than two people in the room because I can here smans. There is the sound of a Sitar being tuned and the strong smell of dope.

There is a count in, ’1, 2, 3, and 4’. Then it starts.

They are performing live for me. A blindfolded gig in a room in slum Bradford. It is, in every sense of the word, beautiful. Poor Tony will be walking the streets of Headingly by now.

They go through the complete catalogue of the sublime punk and new wave (I hate the term New Wave, why the fuck did I invent it?) canon.

The music sways and trips, soothes and stirs There are.acoustic guitars, saxophones, sitars and Tablas. A gruff local voice with wonderful wit, and a girl singer whose voice has not come from the earth. Their takes on Germ Free Adolescent and Holiday in Cambodia have me so excited that I want to rip the blindfold off. I don’t, the magic might be dimmed if I do. Christ knows what I would see.

They finish with a song called Ghost Town. It is outstanding, but then again, everything is. I’ve never heard the song before and am keen to ask who it is written by. I don’t think I’ll get a chance.
The music is finished and then silence for about a minute.

‘Miss Parsons. We hope you enjoyed our music’
‘Yes. I thou…’
‘Do not speak Miss Parsons. Just listen. My name is Harry Patel. This is our band, the Sex Patels. We are here to tell you this. We wrote all the songs that you have heard and enjoyed. There was a man, called Mr McLaren, from London, who made me sign a contract in 1974. He stated that he now owns all the songs. He paid us just £500. With that money, the Sex Patels went away to Delhi to write some more songs, we have been there for five years, we have been very naïve. We are back now, with new songs, Ghost Town is one of them.’
‘I loved that so..’
‘Do not speak Miss Parsons. Now, the Sex Patels want you to pass on a message to Mr McLaren. I understand that you know him well. The message is this. Pay the Sex Patels for all the royalties they are owed for the songs within seven days in a cheque made out to Mr Harry Patel. He has to send it by post to the New Delhi Bank. We will give you the address and account number on a piece of paper when you leave here shortly. If Mr McLaren refuses to do this one thing, the consequences will be grave, very grave. Do you understand? You may speak Miss Parsons, yes or no.’
‘Yes but..’
‘That is enough! We will escort you out now.’

The soft hand leads me, again, out into the street and into a car. I am given the aforementioned piece of paper with the bank details on.

‘Do not take the blindfold off until you are a safe distance away’, the female voice states.

*

There is a radio playing Atmosphere by Joy Division in the car on the Journey back to the hotel. The version that I have just heard on Maple Road trounces it by a country mile. Did they really write it? Harry and his strange Sex Patels?

Tom meets me at the hotel, tells me he got a few snaps of John Peel in a café. We travel back to London slowly. Thank god that I am not on speed or I will have spilled the beans on everything that I have witnessed this morning.

When I get home, to Notting Hill, I notice that I have nothing on my feet. Where are my bloody shoes? I also note that Tony is back, he is furious. He has not even attempted the washing up.

‘I went to fucking Leeds and it was a knocking shop! Did you meet them?
‘Who?'
‘The Sex Patels.’
‘No, they don’t exist.’
‘Fuck you! Anyway, I’ve met this geezer called Shane. Going to meet him in a pub in Kentish Town. I think he is the future of folk music. Don’t even think you are coming with me.’
‘Go. I have to make a phone call.’

I phone Malcolm McLaren. Tell him what has happened. He just laughs at me and puts down the phone. Fuck him. Maybe he will get what he really deserves.

*

A week later, a letter appears on my desk. The message inside is simple and to the point.

Dear Miss Parsons,
Do not print or recite to anyone what happened in our meeting in Maple Road, Bradford. Please send the transcript of what you have written to the address that we gave you in Delhi. If you fail to do this, the consequences will be grave, very grave indeed.’
Best Wishes,
The Sex Patels

I walk to the post office and never hear from Harry and his Sex Patels again. What will happen to Malcolm? I do not care either way. I am considering moving to Brighton.

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