Postscript

I’ve been asked whether the preceding tale is a satirical attack on the power electronics genre. I’d like to reiterate that it is intended as an affectionate tribute.

I became aware of power electronics in 1983 at the age of fourteen, through occasional and largely disapproving references in Sounds. I found the clandestine, genuinely underground nature of the network added to its attractiveness. Hearing Sutcliffe Jugend’s "Slut Meat", Ramleh’s "Prossneck", and reading Come Org's "kata" magazine I felt the thrill of the illegal. My adolescent sexuality had already been twisted by punk rock, then more seriously by TG and SPK. Power electronics felt like some kind of finality; whether it was a criminal liberation or a blind alley is a moot point.

At one stage I had intended to accompany the story with a full scale, well-researched history of power electronics. There are certainly enough fascinating details, curious characters and unexpected connections to make a rival book to Simon Ford’s "Wreckers Of Civilisation" volume on Throbbing Gristle. However, I lack the stamina or business brain for such a major project. Moreover, part of the pleasure for me in researching the historical facts has been the detective work involved. I wouldn’t want to spoil anyone else’s fun in attempting to track down zines like Philip Best’s "Intolerance", early Broken Flag releases or rare Come Org items. Some things should remain hard to find out about. But for what it’s worth, here are a few thoughts on the genre:


The Players

I would define the classic power electronics era as between 1982 and 1984, and the key figures of that era as William Bennett, Gary Mundy, Philip Best, Maurizio Bianchi and Kevin Tomkins.

Whitehouse and the Come Organisation were of course responsible for founding the entire subculture. The 1981 "Dedicated To Peter Kurten" album was the blueprint not only for the intensity and attack of the sound, but also for the pervasive themes: sexual deviance and violent crime. The next album ("Buchenwald") added fascist politics to the pot-pourri. These themes were largely inspired by (a misinterpretation of?) Throbbing Gristle's pre-1979 releases. William Bennett has talked on more than one occasion about his feelings of disappointment when TG released "20 Jazz Funk Greats". If Genesis P-Orridge’s suicide attempt at TG's final 1978 show had succeeded, perhaps power electronics would never have existed.

Whitehouse survived the classic power electronics era with style and went on to flourish during the ‘90s with increasingly ‘serious’ records whose depth is largely due to the involvement of the controversial American writer Peter Sotos. All Whitehouse records are essential and the band remains utterly unique.

Ramleh, led by Gary Mundy, were an important act whose organisation/label Broken Flag was the only major rival to Come Org. The sound was slightly more thoughtful/considered than Whitehouse’s and the shock tactics involved were a little more subtle (although they certainly did well on the Nazi fetishism front). Mundy lost interest in the genre by 1984 after an impressive two years of active involvement. The name Ramleh survived into the ‘90s, as an excellent avant-garde rock band fronted by Mundy and Philip Best, with involvement from other veterans of the classic power electronics era. Gary Mundy now plays guitar in a shockingly awful goth-rock band culled Breathless - he always had such side projects, but now Ramleh and Broken Flag are perhaps finally defunct.

Philip Best, the child star of power electronics, founded Consumer Electronics, the Iphar label and Intolerance fanzine at the age of 14. By 15 he had joined Whitehouse and toured Germany, and by 16 he had retired. Best’s approach particularly focussed on women-hating. It’s easy to be all Sigmund Freud about this, but the fact remains that Philip Best’s adolescence was more productive and worthwhile than most of ours’. When Best resurfaced in the ‘90s to work with both Ramleh and Whitehouse, his approach was tempered with the sadness and knowledge of maturity — indeed, some of his ‘90s work has more intelligence and depth than is usually seen in any area of popular culture. There was a one-off Consumer Electronics comeback album in ‘95, the "Horn Of The Goat" collaboration with Merzbow. This deserves a special mention for managing to offend the idiot who writes ‘Compulsion’ magazine, who typically managed to miss the reference to Dennis Cooper’s novel "Try" in the packaging which adds a crucial ambiguity to the paedophiliac themes.

Maurizio Bianchi was a one-off and one of the most enigmatic figures in all twentieth-century music. Working in isolation in Italy, he produced over ten albums and myriad cassettes of uniquely depressing power electronics between 1980 and 1984, before becoming a Jehovah’s Witness. Listening to his chilling noise and themes of genocide, one can certainly empathise with the torment he was going through at this time. In many ways the self-aware psychological depth of MB’s work sets it slightly apart from the rest of the scene. In recent years, a superb set of CD reissues has been made available, and two new albums of Jehovah New Age music have been issued under his name. There exists a magnificent internet site devoted to an extremely fetishistic survey of MB releases. MB is someone worth fetishising.

Kevin Tomkins formed Sutcliffe Jugend in 1982 as a response to what Come Org were issuing, and in many ways his initiative really kickstarted the power electronics scene. By 1983 he had joined Whitehouse, and by 1985 he had retired. For sickening undereducated violence, Sutcliffe Jugend’s output is hard to beat. It’s easy to laugh at the song titles, but the fact remains that for Tomkins this felt real. His furious themes of unabashed aggression upped the stakes for everyone involved in the scene. Kevin Tomkins resurfaced during the ‘90s with a rather dull rock band, Bodychoke, and with three ‘comeback’ SJ albums (alongside reissued ‘80s material). The last of these in particular, "The Victim As Beauty", is a disturbingly authentic-sounding restatement of the original SJ themes and is well worth hearing. If Tomkins’ intellectual powers have not increased over the years, neither has his rage diminished.

Aftermath. Honorary Mentions, etc.

Tim Gane made violent-sounding power electronics as Un-Kommuniti before turning indie-pop with McCarthy (named after a Ramleh track?). Nowadays he’s best known for his extremely irritating retro-pop band with pseudo-political lyrics, Stereolab.

Jordi Valls, along with Glenn Michael Wallis (Konstruktivists, Whitehouse session man), provided one of the only real links between old--school industrial and power electronics by being simultaneously involved on the peripheries of both Come Org and T.O.P.Y. He remains best known for his series of releases as "Vagina Dentata Organ" — perhaps the most unique series of anti-records ever made.

Matthew Bower (along with Alex Binnie - now better known as a world-famous tattoo artist) made arty power electronics under the name Pure. He went on to find his own voice with a huge number of often excellent experimental records under the names Skullflower, Total and Sunroof!, and he remains very active to this day.

Mike Dando arrived a little late to the power electronics scene; although his first show as Con-Dom occurred on 13th September 1983, it took many more years for him to begin issuing records regularly in the ‘90s. Con-Dom recordings are distinguished by their depth and ambiguity. He specialises in ‘political’ themes. His vocals are certainly reminiscent of the classic P.E. era, although much of the sound is perhaps a little too considered and ambient to qualify. Con-Dom is a unique and fascinating project and all recordings are recommended.

Trev Ward (and his longstanding cohort Dave Padbury) similarly arrived late on the scene as The Grey Wolves, although they were peripherally involved during the glory days. Their cassette labels with ever-changing names (Anal Probe, Zeal SS, Lebensborn, Strength Through Awareness, Industrial Warfare, Open Wound), their superbly packaged Grey Wolves albums, their wretchedly zeroxed ‘offensive’ publications and their deservedly legendary "Cultural Terrorist Manifesto" (First issued ‘87) make them the nearest thing the world still has to the ‘82-’84 power electronics scene in all its gloriously threatening silliness. Their activities are hugely recommended.

The third and final entry in this ‘latecomers’ section goes to Ulex Xane, who after many years of underground involvement in both surrealism and the cassette scene, began to issue almost PERFECT power electronics recordings as Streicher during the ‘90s in Melbourne, Australia. The ultra-right, utterly preposterous tone of his ‘skinhead nihilism’ makes it totally irresistible to me. The music is hard to find, but well worth your effort.

Americans have never created a viable power electronics act. Peter Sotos’s infamous "Pure" magazine (briefly reavailable during the mid-90s in the now out-of-print "Total Abuse") is possibly best regarded as power electronics-based writing. But someone like Mark Solotroff, who’s made noble attempts under many monikers to get the sound right since the 1980s, has consistently failed. Paul Lemos’ Controlled Bleeding were briefly regarded as power electronics in the classic era, but my ears find little evidence to support this claim. Special mentions should go to Taint and to Deathpile for being particularly clueless and stupid.

Japan has never produced a power electronics act which I would recognise as such, although P.E. was of course a major influence on the Japanese noise scene.

Europe responded to power electronics by taking their template for the sound from MB’s more laid-back moments, and by reproducing the fascist imagery without either aggression or irony. Europeans, particularly Germans and Scandinavians, are stupid and worthless fucking idiots on the whole, and at least thirty years behind Britain in most cultural fields. Those with more patience than myself can investigate the Cold Meat Industry and Tesco labels, and acts like Genocide Organ, Survival Unit, Brighter Death Now, Anenzephalia etc. The best source for this material in Britain is Cold Spring.

Honorary mention to the now sadly defunct "Freak Animal" magazine from Finland who attempted to cover the modern power electronics scene with a little more intelligence than many other culprits.

A possible last word on power electronics was said by Herne Bay’s self-consciously parodic noise outfit Slugbait on their 1995 album "Medium To Heavy Flow". This included an epic twenty minute piece of very harsh sound called "There’s Nothing To Do In Greenhithe".


This publication is dedicated to the ultimate power electronics chancer, John Murphy. At the same time as being an integral player in the original scene, working with Whitehouse and Consumer Electronics as well as his own Krang project, Murphy also played drums for chart pop act The Associates. "...the drummer would mooch around Morgan Studios in a dirty old raincoat with a Burroughs paperback poking out of the pocket" - The Glamour Chase: The Maverick Life of Billy Mackenzie, p.52. Under capital the only honest approach that can be made towards art is through showbusiness.

To preserve the clandestine integrity of this project, we offer no credits or contact addresses. Please accept, the assurances of my highest consideration.

Seven

Dave Blunkett and Mike Read met at the lonely hour of three pm in their favourite cafe. The Chestnut Tree was almost empty. A ray of sunlight slanting through a window fell yellow on dusty table-tops. A tinny music trickled from the radio. Mike had got clear of the nut ward OK, but he’d lost his day job. Dave had vague memories of all the Hitler Rally shit but it was slipping away even as he tried to grasp the details.

I was a fucking contender, I think, he thought.
"It feels like we’ve been doing nothing but sitting round cafes in the afternoon for years", Mike started. "Don’t you think we oughta do something with our lives?"
"Ahhh", Dave sighed, "Y’know, we’re best off keepin’ a low profile... do something with your life and you end up fucked up. Anyone with any power or influence in this world is a corrupt bastard seems to me"
"Yeah, bunch off Nazis innit"

Dave shot Mike a sharp look at this. He wondered how much his liquid-coshed mate remembered of the last few months.
"Tell you what mate" Blunkett started, "Let’s start a band"
"Alright...are you still into that industrial shit?" Mike queried.
"Nah, got sick oF it... like it’s worse than the original template... second time as farce..."

Mike Read wondered what the fuck his old mate was on about. This cunt is more spaced-out than me, he thought, and it’s not him that’s been in the big house!
"No Mike, what I’ve been getting into is this new group Talulah Gosh. It’s called the cutie-pop scene. I’m bang into it and I’ve got every copy so far of "Tea and Biscuits" Fanzine — that’s like, the Bible of the scene. It’s so fucking underground at the moment, just waiting to break big-style"

Mike Read thought about the possibilities oF getting into a twee pop band. There was a nice lass called Tracey he’d met at the outpatients’ clinic, he’d been meaning to get to know her better. We could ask her to do ‘ba ba ba’ harmonies or play tambourine, he thought. He mentioned this to Dave.
"Yeah! I’d already thought of having a whole group of girl backing singers going ‘ba ba ba’, we could call them The Kitties... and I think the overall band name could be Sunshine Sparklepops", Blunkett opined.

Something changed in the music that trickled from the radio. A cracked and jeering note, a yellow note, came into it. And then a voice was singing:
‘Club Tropicana, drinks are free — fun and sunshine, there’s enough for everyone’
Tears welled up in both men’s eyes. A passing waitress noticed that their cups were empty and came back with the teapot.

Six

Blunkett stepped gingerly from his limo to meet Howard Jones outside Buckingham Palace. Fuck knows what this scene was gonna be like. The success of the Wembley gig had battered his head a bit. The papers had been full of shock horror stuff regarding all the violence and the snuff movie, but you could tell everyone really got off on it. What was messing with Dave’s head was why he was being allowed to get away with all this. There’d been no comeback from the law at all — questions in Parliament, yeah, but that was just publicity-hungry backbenchers desperate to make a name for themselves. The coppers were keeping their distance from the whole sordid spectacle.

Dave thought it was weird because he was clearly breaking fuckloads of laws and shitting all over traditional moral values. It seemed to be alright if it was in the name of entertainment and raking in wads of dosh for EMI though.
"Alright Howard, where’s the party?" stammered Dave to the aristocratic reporter who was lurking outside the Palace like some weirdo stalker.
"This way, old chap" said Jones, guiding Dave by the arm in a paternalistic manner that really got on his fucking tits but fuck it.

Blunkett and Jones went through a bunch of ceremonial gates into the Palace. A load of blokes wearing stupid costumes were lurking around, busbies or beefeaters or whatever the fuck they were. As ridiculous as they looked in those get-ups, Dave noticed that the geezers were pretty hefty and could no doubt get a bit handy if need be. It was subtly intimidating shit and Dave was quietly impressed with the evil power he could feel around the gaff. No wonder these royal fuckers were interested in meeting a cunt like me, he thought.

Dave and Howard entered a huge ballroom which was covered in gold and jewels on every surface. A flunky handed them both glasses of champagne and Howard led Dave on.
"David, you simply must meet the Prime Minister"
Blunkett was suddenly face to face with Penelope Keith, the Iron Lady herself.
"Why hello Mr. Blunkett - charmed I’m sure"
Dave was freaked to fuck. This Tory cow was being genuinely pleasant to him. He stammered his thoughts out loud:
"Why are you being nice to me? I represent everything you detest, your newspapers say so!"
"Oh Mr Blunkett - you do have a lot to learn! Ha ha ha!", she laughed patronisingly, "Ha ha ha!"
Howard Jones led Dave to an ante-chamber. "The fun’s about to start, chap — you won’t believe what you’re about to see!"

A select crowd of the ball’s attendees had gathered in the smaller room. Blunkett suddenly twigged that top quality snuff videos were being projected onto every wall — far worse shit than the South American one he’d got hold of. This was graphic close-up rape and snuff torture with high production values.

Then Dave noticed that the Royal Family themselves were in the room — the Queen and her mum, Philip, Charles, Andrew, Edward and Anna. They were all wearing their crowns and robes and stuff and they were encircling a young and frightened child who was strapped to a table. They had knives and were stabbing the kid randomly, all the while laughing like horses. "So mote it be!" guffawed the Queen was she poked the victim’s eye with a sharp stilletto blade, "Ha ha ha!"

"Naff off to Hell, child!" added Princess Anna. The Queen Mother was watching this scene rather than participating, and Dave noticed her growing two foot in height and revealing her lizard head. Her eyes were like horrible saucepans.

Blunkett thought he had a strong stomach for the sicko stuff but this shit made him wanna blow his cookies. Jesus, I really am small fry in the corruption stakes, he reflected.

He stumbled from the chamber leaving his mate Howard there drinking in the vile scene with his eyes. As he re-entered the main chamber he bumped into Sir Richard Astley, the deputy PM who’d been on Cath Carroll’s radio show with him a few weeks ago.

Dave really was at a loss for words. Astley had a patronising look in his eye.
"Dave, I expect you’re wondering why you’re here. When I say ‘here’, I mean, the position you’re in. A lot of people have worked very hard to ensure that your band have had such success"

Some other top politico with Astley chipped in:
"You see Dave, when we found out about power electronics it was too good an opportunity to miss. Our long-term plans for Europe involve re-establishing German dominance over the economic system. We used your form of, erm, 'entertainment' to ensure that Nazi chic was rebranded in the public’s mind as mere enterteinment."

"Yes, and what’s more, we’re working on a mind control beam to mentally enslave the sheople oF Europe... and it’s ex-Nazi scientists who’re doing most of the work on this", Astley continued, "Operation Paperclip has ensured that these gentlemen flourished, albeit out of the public eye. The groundbreaking PR work done by Hitler Rally will enable these wonderfully industrious and efficient men to come out of the closet, so to speak, and re-enter public life. Maybe even your mysterious pal Martin Boorman will re-emerge from Brazil - he has ambitions of entering the film industry, I hear!"
Both politicians chuckled, a vile corrupt mirthless laughter.

A thunderbolt exploded in Dave Blunkett’s mind. His motives from the start had been rooted in rebellion, just pure rebellion against everything. The liberal-baiting had been down to the fact that watching the TV made him feel sick and alienated ‘cause he couldn’t relate to that mainstream shit. He was just kicking against the system instinctively - but he’d been set up by proper sick fuckers who’d used his nihilistic entertainment to further their own clandestine fascist child—sacrificing power-mad cabal.

"BOLLOCKS TO YOU CUNTS!!!" he screamed at the Nazi mind control freaks, "I’m Fuckin’ goin’ public with all this shit I’ve found out about. The public loves me ‘cause I’m a rebel who don’t give a fuck, I’m gonna bring down the entire secret world government and blow the gaff on your mind control beam!"

"Alas, poor Blunkett, you’re oh so too late... the groundwork with public manipulation has already been done. If you quit now, nothing will change. Why not work with us? We’ve done a little preliminary work on what your next album should contain. We want to soften up the public to slowly accept the reality of aliens, so the next Hitler Rally album will be full of songs about alien rape..."
"No. I quit" said Dave with immense dignity.
"Well, that’s too bad" said Prime Minister Penelope Keith who’d crept up on the party from behind. Her horrible old bag’s face was covered with childrens’ blood and excrement. "You could have had it all, Mr Blunkett - cocaine and young girls for the rest of your life... but it looks like you’re going back to being a nobody in Torquay. EMI will of course drop the band immediately...why hello, Doktor Grunenbarg!"

Some vicious looking old Nazi with little beady eyes behind his granny glasses had entered the fray.
"Guten tag, alles! Und now ve haf ze perfect experimental use of ze mind control beam — ve vill hypnotise ze entire welt to never remember zis power electronics or der Hitler Rally-band! Ha ha ha!"
"Ha ha ha!" they all laughed, "HA HA HA!!"

Dave’s head was utterly fucked. It seems Mike was right, he thought, I’m well out of my bleedin’ depth here. It had all been like a dream. He quietly slipped out out the Palace, scarcely noticed, to hail a taxi and begin his long journey back to Torquay.

Five

Blunkett eyed up the scenes of depravity backstage at Wembley Stadium. Teenage chicks in Hitler Rally t-shirts were giving head to security goons in specially made SS uniforms. The band were number one in the album and singles charts and this prestigious Wembley gig was the crowning glory. They hadn’t been out of the news for weeks now. This superstar business, it’s a piece of fucking piss, thought Blunkett.

Other power electronics acts had jumped on the bandwagon and were clogging up the charts like whopping great turds down a u-bend. A lot of them were record company manufactured fakes. Take Dirtfuck, who had a hit with "Jewish Beck Entry" - Blunkett knew for a fact that those guys had been in a teenybop band until three months ago. Their manager Richard Baker was one of the old school of pop entrepreneurs who didn’t give a fuck for the artist’s "creative ideals" — he just wanted to see his act make money the fastest way. And power electronics was certainly the biggest craze the music biz had known since Beatlemania.

Still, I’m the one at the top, thought Dave as he snorted a great big line of Columbia’s finest. The band were due on in ten minutes. Dave had introduced himself to the two stooges who were being Hitler Rally session man tonight. One of them, Jim Theakston, had until recently been a promising keybordist in the neo-prog scene, but now took session work wherever he could get it. The twiddly-fingered concept album fan had realised that sensitive artistry doesn’t pay the rent — or get you laid. Theakston was now enjoying the oral ministrations of two power electronics groupie chicks with multi-coloured hair. One was wearing a T-shirt depicting grotesque laboratory animal experiments and the sight of it was putting Jim off his orgasm something chronic.

In the stadium the lights dipped and the crowd let up an almighty roar. Dave Blunkett smiled to himself as he heard the pre-show tape kick into action. He’d persuaded EMI to pay Manchester Police an under-the-counter substantial sum for a dub of the notorious Moors Murders tape to use as the intro at Wembley. People were paying £20 a ticket, and up to £100 from touts, he rationalised — so we’d better give ‘em a show to remember. As the sicko tape recording of the young lad's murder blared out, Blunkett noticed with grim amusement that one or two twats out there were holding lighters up above their heads.

And this wasn’t the only surprise Hitler Rally had for the sell-out audience. Towards the end of the set tonight they’d be showing a genuine snuff movie on a giant screen. It was a horrible shaky video of a gaggle of schoolkids being tied up in some shed, then eaten by wolves. Dave had received it from Brazil in a batch of fan mail at the Nazi Sex Murder Records address, with just a scrawled note accompanying it saying "Best Wishes, Marty B". He was pretty blown away by its sicko power and it sure made a change from the usual gormless fan mail of "you guys are evil, I love you" standards... or the endless paranoid letters Dave had been getting from Mike Read in the loony bin. That poor cunt has really lost it — scrawling in crayon stuff about "you’re in above your head Dave" and "secret forces are at work".

Theakston and the other bloke, whatever his name was, sidled onto the stage as "The Little Drummer Boy" faded out. The crowd screamed their tits off but really reached a crescendo when Dave Blunkett shambled on and grabbed the microphone. "Hello London, how ya doin’?!" he yelled. "KILL! KILL! KILL!!!"
The synths began to let out horrible sounds which sounded fucking amazing through the Marshall stacks and Blunkett started ranting about "dismember the body" and "torture the blind scum". You couldn’t tell what song it was, maybe he didn’t even know himself. And you could only hear about one word in every five. But what you could make out clearly wasn’t very nice. The whole thing was bang out of order.

The security SS guys were really getting into their role. As Hitler Rally screeched on, they were cracking the skulls of any kids near to the stage they could find. It’s a bleedin’ bloodbath, thought Dave to himself whenever he looked down from the stage at the carnage. He used the thought as an improvised lyric - "it’s a bleedin’ bloodbath - die you cunts!". It just drove everyone wilder and random scraps were breaking out everywhere in the crowd as people lost the thin veneer of civilisation and reverted to savagery.

"Survival of the fittest" he yelped - "und das ist gut! Fur diese unstellung mit angeschlleimer!" He didn’t know what the fuck that meant but it seemed to fit. The gig was going really well. The St John’s ambulances were packed with bloody casualties and Blunkett was really grooving on the power of his situation. Hitler Rally started on their last number, the epic closer of "FISTASHITTER FUR HIMMLER", a vile celebration of snuff porn entitled "You’ve Been Snuffed". The genuine South American snuff movie flickered into life on the 100 foot high video screens. As Blunkett was mumbling the well offensive lyrics ("Your death on my camera bitch, that’s entertainment") he noted with amusement that mass vomiting had broken out in the crowd. Kids were puking on the SS officers and the security were too fucked up by it all to even crack their skulls. He was fucking knackered by now, it was a long gig — but what a fucking way to end it. This was what showbiz was all about.

Blunkett was badly in need of some marching powder as he stumbled backstage guarded by the SS. He was too fucked to bother with a groupie. "But we’ve got the finest selection of babes in the stadium gathered for you, Mr Blunkett sir!" said the security head, "and the young ladies will be expecting to meet you".

"Just Fuck ‘em all in the arse" growled Dave and slumped on a settee near the drug bowls. As he relaxed alone he was surprised by the appearance of Howard Jones sidling into the room. Jones was a journo for the ‘Observer’ - he'd done a huge, sympathetic feature on Hitler Rally a week ago. He was a posh fucker but Dave had hit it off pretty well with the cunt.
"Alright Howard, how’s it goin'?"
"Splendidly, dear chap — that was a marvelous spectacle tonight, David! So delightfully mischievous!"
"Cheers Howard. What brings you here, anyway"
"Well David — I’m sure you know that before I became entertainment and culture correspondent for the Observer, I was chief political correspondent for the Sunday Times... the contacts I made back then were very interesting and I’ve kept in touch with a few people in very high places. A lot of powerful people are very interested in your work, David...I wonder if you’d like to attend a party at Buckingham Palace next weekend?"
"Fuck me, Buckingham Palace! Yeah, why not, the more the merrier" gabbled Blunkett incoherently.

"Excellent - I shall be in touch regarding precise arrangements. And David — don’t mention this to anyone."
Howard Jones’s eyes bored into Dave’s as he stressed this last point. The power electronics guru knew that he was getting into some really weird heavy shit here.

Four

Dave Blunkett eased Nancy Friday’s silky red gusset aside and began to tongue her moist crevice. Seeing as how the ‘Youth TV’ presenter had been expertly blowing his plonker for well over half an hour, it was only right she got a bit of licking back. Though I’m fucked if I’ll do it for more than five minutes before I shove the old monster in, he thought coolly.

He’d met her about six hours previous. Hitler Rally had been doing a couple of numbers on her teatime pop show. A couple of stooges ware standing in for the banged-up Neil Spencer and the mentally fucked Mike Read. Blunkett couldn’t even remember the fuckers’ names. He’d bunged them a few quid and they were happy to get their five minutes of fame as sidemen to the newest and most infamous cult musician in the U.K.

Hitler Rally had done just two new songs — ‘Backscuttling The Cripple’ and their debut single ‘Klaus Barbie Doll’ which was tipped to enter the charts at number one next week on its release. Not only were the band signed to E.M.I. (although Blunkett insisted on retaining the NAZI SEX MURDER label - and the record label executives were more than willing to create this special subsidiary vanity label for their new star), but with all the tabloid interest surrounding Hitler Rally, every single teenage idiot in the land would be rushing out to buy the tuneless electronic dirge as a badge of their rebellion. These same teenagers probably all based their wank fantasies on Nancy Friday, the bimbo TV presenter whose anus Dave Blunkett was now fingering while he spread her pink fanny lips wide and sniffed in her womanly aroma.

He turned her around and propped her bum in the air on a pillow and paused for a few seconds. ‘Dave honey, what’re you doing?’ gurgled the bimbo. ‘I can’t decide whether to go for the pink or the brown’, deadpanned Blunkett. The brainless TV muppet squealed in hilarity — her latest pop star conquest was referring to the joke about Steve Davies and the prostitute with which he’d broken the ice with her at the afterehow drink and coke party earlier that night.

Blunkett did the damage on each hole in turn before shooting a thick wad of liquid genetics onto Nancy’s back. While it was still trickling into the crack of her perfectly rounded anus as she let out her last gasps of kinky pleasure, the power electronics guru quickly dressed and decided to get the fuck out pretty sharpish. This bimbo was nothing special in the sack, and not as tasty as she looked on the tally.

‘Oh Dave, don’t go just yet...I’ve got some more coke!’
‘Listen darlin’ I’m really gonna have to make like a panda right now. I’ll call you sometime, OK?’
‘Oh, alright. What you on about, like a panda?’
‘Eats shoots and leaves’ smiled the charismatic industrial megastar as he left Nancy to her own perverse sexual introspection in yet another lonely dildo session.

Walking out of the swishy Mayfair penthouse Blunkett tipped the doorman, who responded with a ‘Thank you sir. Goodnight’ and opened the door of the twisted noisemeistar’s limousine.

As he helped himself to the well-stocked mini-bar of the limo (having told the driver to ‘Just drive anywhere, I don’t really care where’) Blunkett suddenly remembered that tomorrow morning he was being interviewed on Radio Four. Some serious discussion show or something with a load of top politicians on it. I’d better lay off this booze if I’m to be fit for that, he thought - and do some serious white lines!

Blunkett spent the next four-and-a-half hours just driving round London in the record company limo, doing top grade cocaine and watching bits of telly with the sound turned down. The car stereo was blasting out rough mixes of the Hitler Rally debut LP, ‘FISTASHITTER FOR HIMMLER’. As the powerful track ‘The Buggers Club’ came on — Blunkett’s favourite — he gazed out of the window to see that they were now passing through the Kings Cross area. A cold-looking teenage hooker lurked around a lamppost. A pissed up tramp lay dying in an alley. A big black guy was beating himself up and screaming in some sort of crazy bad-drug-inspired rage. These are my people, thought Dave fondly as he glimpsed all these street crackpots. These people are basically the reason why I’m doing what I’m doing, he reflected as he inhaled another big line of the Bolivian marching powder.

At 7 a.m. he forced a Big Mac and fries down and decided he’d better get down to the studio. He was dropped there by the now thoroughly browned-off chauffeur and was soon shaking the hand of the show’s presenter, Cath Carroll.

Fuckin’ hell, thought Blunkett. She’s proper ‘thinking man’s crumpet’ tackle. Over-educated and intellectual, Cath was a well-preserved 35. She talked like there was fucking plums in her mouth but something about her eyes told the cocaine-crazed mental guru that she was the sort who’d want you to do the damage up against a wall in some dilapidated slum. Or you’d get to har gaff and she’d have a bunch of kinky leather and rubber gear, and loads of books by De Sade and the like. Just as some men have a ‘feel’ for violence, Dave had a basic ‘feel’ for shagging. He loved fanny and he’d been getting loads since he’d got famous. These fucking slags, he thought — half of them wouldn’t have looked at me six months ego and now they’re all fuckin’ gagging for it! What a load of silly shallow slappers.

Dave drank a few cups of coffee and flirted with the classy media babe. The politicians, doctors and the like who made up the rest of the panel were looking a bit put out at all the attention this ‘art’ hooligan was getting from Ms. Carroll.

Eventually the show got underway. ‘Good morning end welcome to The News That Matters’ enunciated Cath through her heavily revloned gob (which Blunkett already knew his knob would be in before the morning was through). ‘Today we are discussing Power Electronics, the new youth music cult which is threatening to become bigger - and infinitely more disturbing to parents and teachers - than the hippy and punk movements of the sixties and seventies. My guests are Mr.David Blunkett of Hitler Rally, Sir Richard Astley the Deputy Prime Minister, Mr.Ian Brady, the Chief Executive of the General Medical Council, Miss Virginia Astley...'

Blunkett dozed off for a few minutes and was woken by the strident voice of one of the uptight pricks on the panel: ‘And I put it to Mr Blunkett that this movement is nothing more than a money-making gimmick and symbolic of not only a decadent music business, but an ever-more decadent society in general!’
‘I fuckin’ hope it is’, swore Dave. ‘At least we’re not acting like social workers. Anyway the main thing is the noise and no-one ever talks about that, just the paraphernalia. That noise sound is what we like, it’s what we really love. It reminds me of cracking a virgin or opening the shrinkarap on a deck of fags when that synth kicks in, and that. So fuck off’.

The panel went quiet for a minute, and Cath Carroll freaked a bit - there were going to be shitloads of complaints about the swearing. She’d been too busy planning Blunkett’s seduction before the show to remind him not to come out with any foul-mouthed filth.

Suddenly some arsehole of a doctor piped up and saved the day. ‘Are you aware that exposure to these sound frequencies at such volume can cause permanent...’ Blunkett blacked out again and was unconscious for the rest of the programme.

Three

Mike Read was on his way home from the library when he heard yet another shout from a member of the public who'd recognised him.

'Oi, 'Itler mate. Wotcher reading?'

The speaker was a heavily tattooed skinhead who looked even more fucked up than Neil Spencer - who was now on remand for the murder of Peter Powell at the Deathcamp Festival in London two weeks ago. Since then Hitler Rally had hit the front of every national newspaper with headlines such as 'WHERE NOW FOR POWER ELECTRONICS?' (The Guardian), 'THIS SICK CULT THAT THREATENS OUR CHILDREN' (Daily Mail) and 'LOONY SHOCKERS WHO WORSHIP ADOLF' (The Sun). The murder had been great publicity as far as Dave Blunkett was concerned - he was lapping up the media attention. For Mike, the whole thing was a nightmare come true.

He tried to ignore the skin's question and walk a little faster but the boneheaded boot boy walked alongside him, eyeing up the book under his arm. 'Oh yeah. That Willyam Burrers, I heard he was a bit of a lifter, still. Naked lunches and that or sumfink. I know your sort. Yer junky an' queer. Too right'

Mike tried to quicken his pace. Before all this had happened he'd been an arty kind of guy who liked to think he possessed an unusual form of creativity. Now he was some sort of national icon for the disturbed, for true scum, for fuckups and misanthropes of every variety. It was completely doing his heed in and held been referred to a psychiatrist by his GP. He couldn't seem to relax at all - he was constantly anxious and assailed by weird guilt.

Mike managed to get rid of the brutal, bestial boot boy with his Borstal tears and made it home. He grabbed the mornning's mail and hotfooted it to his room before his mum had the chance to give him any more grief. It looked like the usual mix of fan mail from crazies and serial wankers, plus the usual few offers from tabloid journalists. But one letter stood out. Postmarked London SW1, it was neatly addressed in nondescript italic capitals, in blue ink. Opening it, Mike Read found no covering letter just two photocopied sheets. They locked like memos of some sort and his paranoia really started to prickle when he saw the heading 'MOST SECRET' - a phrase which he knew the CIA used for their most confidential documents of all.

Both memos were apparently from 'P.F.Leeds' . One was addressed to 'Paul Condom'. The style was terse and authoritative. 'Your men must refrain from overzealous reactions to events within the power electronics cult' said one line. 'I would remind you of the work which the agency and our associates have put into this project over many years - we will not tolerate undue interference from your uniformed officers into matters which should rightly be left unmentioned'.

The other memo was to 'Philip West, Customs & Excise, Heathrow Airport' and it consisted of one line only. 'Final confirmation: any mail addressed to H.R., N.S.M. etc which emanates from Brazil should reach its addressee post haste and should be in no wise tampered with or doctored'.

Mike's brain reeled with sickening shock and fear. Who was this P.F. Leeds character? He began to think laterally as he slipped into the bad trip dreamworld that his life had suddenly become. 'P.F.' obviously meant 'Pickle Factory'. And he was being handed some 'leads' to help him understand how deep he was getting into this morass of intrigue and subterfuge. All he'd ever wanted to do was be a sort of arty bloke, he thought as the tears began to flow.

He took one last look at the envelope. There was an advertising postmark, very faint, stamped, which he hadn't noticed before. 'COLDSEAL - NO ONE ELSE IS IN THE FRAME BUT YOU' it read. Mike Read held his head in his hand and began to howl as he curled into a foetal ball on his bed. He was still in that position five hours later when the ambulance men finally arrived.

Two

Neil Spencer had been a fucking nightmare on the long car journey from Torquay to London. Even Blunkett found it pretty hard to tolerate him after they'd been thrown out of the third motorway service station. He’d also been sick in the car after taking too big a swig of methadone, which he’d blagged from one of his fuck-up girlfriends; it stank!

Still, they were here now and Mike had to admit that things were looking good. The squatted venue was filling up steadily with filthy looking down-and-out hippy punks here to freak out to the extreme power electronics on offer. There were a few studenty-looking types too, and some people in their forties and fifties. It was a cool mix of people. Three bands had already played: Heartraper, The Ambulance Chasers and Dog Fuck Rubber. They'd all acquitted themselves pretty well and D.F.R. had made a bit of an impression with their projected Super 8 films of forcible lobotomies and electric shock treatments.

Mike and Dave were both enjoying themselves. Nothing like this ever happened in sleepy Torquay! They swigged from cans of strong lager and swapped tasteless jokes, looking forward to playing their third ever gig in a couple of hours' time. Meanwhile, Neil Spencer was in the makeshift ladies' toilets on the seedy premises. He was slipping it to some girl called Marie he’d approached outside the bogs half an hour before. She'd kept talking to him about transgression and genius porridge or something. His booze and drug-addled brain didn't understand a word of it. What he did know was that she was wearing a leather miniskirt, fishnet tights, and had fucking nice tits.

He’d somehow managed to get into her knickers and her pink mohican was quivering. As he shot his disease-riddled load into her pierced and shaved twat, Hitler Rally's waiting period seemed to pass very quickly, and as Mike looked at his digital watch to see the time become 8.00, Blunkett nudged him and said "This lot are finished - we're on next!" Karpvoid were already packing up after a disappointing set of mostly instrumental noise, with a few samples of babies screaming thrown in. It should be a fucking piece of piss to top that bunch of tossers, thought Blunkett arrogantly as he wheeled on the swastika contraptions which had been hidden at the side of the stage. Mike set up his sound-generating equipment, noting mentally that the PA man in this gaff was already complaining and seemed a bit unused to power electronics gigs. Someone eventually found Neil Spencer in a pool of his own blood and vomit and informed him to get his arse onstage as the Hitler Rally was about to start.

Mike, amused despite himself, told Spencer "Stand in front of this keyboard and don’t touch anything!" Spencer growled in a deranged manner, rolled his glassy eyes and said something incomprehensible but foul-sounding. The tape that was playing of 23 Skidoo was eventually halted at a hand signal from Blunkett. Without preamble Hitler Rally blasted into action. Mike Read frantically fiddled with oscillators and other esoteric electronic equipment as the hall filled with hideous piercing sounds of wailing torment. Blunkett growled "I am a man, I’m better than a woman" over this cacophony. "I am a rapist and you deserve it, you bitch!"

Spencer tried to stand upright and failed, but not before managing to lob a beer bottle or two at the enthusiastic crowd. As they launched into the second number Mike permitted himself a smile. The crowd were going apeshit at the obvious commitment and passion, that Hitler Rally were putting into their sound. And they've not even seen our rotating swastikas yet, he thought. These remained still covered with rough curtain material until their ultra right-wing anthem 'Aryan Supremacy' began. Now, as Dave screamed out the despicable paedophiliac lyrics to 'Kidsnuff’ he was starting on the audience baiting for real. "Fuck her and kill her in the sandpit!" he screamed, into a young girl's face before slapping her right cheek with the palm of his left hand as hard as he could.

The song dragged on, as did the distressing wail of tortured noise equipment, as Blunkett catalogued every sick thought about children held ever dredged up from the darkest sewers of his mind into the microphone, making sure this litany of perversion was as audible as possible. He tried to find the most vulnerable, scared and alone-looking people in the 400-strong crowd - mostly girls but a few young lads too - and he singled them cut for physical attack. Such was his charisma that he remained unchallenged by any disgruntled boyfriends or feminists.

The PA man who the Deathcamp Festival organisers had hired, Pete Powell, was thoroughly fed up. The music certainly wasn't his cup of tea - he preferred the classic rock sounds of Eric Clapton, Rory Gallagher and the like - but he could cope with it and he was being well-paid. What was pissing him off was that he couldn't get the memory of the funeral he’d attended that morning out of his head. His grandmother had been 82 but was still a proud and independent woman up until the moment of the sudden massive stroke which mercifully had killed her almost instantly. She had been born in the Warsaw ghetto, and never let anyone forget the struggle she had gone through to stay alive. As an inmate at Bergen-Belsen she had been lucky to survive the war to say the least. She'd refused to have her tattooed number removed after she settled in England.

Pete liked to think she kept it as a constant reminder of her past, as a kind of badge of her noble endurance. This was what was going through Pete Powell's mind as Dave Blunkett unfurled the curtains at the sides of the stage and plugged in the rotating swastikas.

Hitler Rally plunged into their Nazi anthem and Mike abused his sound generators with fresh vigour, while Neil had rallied and was now spitting into the mouths of people in the front row, who were unwisely gawping at the admittedly impressive sight of the giant wooden swastikas which were
spinning rapidly.

As Blunkett ranted his hate-filled message of violence and anti-Semitism, Pete Powell felt his blood begin to boil. His poor old gran.and all she'd been through... and this cunt screaming "Kill the Jewish scum!"... Pete felt a lightning strike of white-hot anger course through his mind. "RIGHT" he thought, and before even bothering to turn off the PA he strode purposefully through the crowd of punk scumbags, pushing them aside as he tried to reach the stage to give these arseholes a good kicking. He was into karate, had been in a few punch-ups in his time and reckoned he could hammer these weedy-looking sickos. The only one of them who locked a bit handy was too pissed to cope with the righteous anger of the infuriated Powell.

Blunkett saw what was coming. He bellowed "Reopen Auschwitz!" as loud as he could before swiftly throwing the lighter fluid onto each swastika in turn and chucking the lit matches. The gig was going to come to a premature but spectacular end, he’d realised.

The crowd began to panic at the sight of the flames and except for a few diehard extremist sensation-seekers, they began to scatter and make for the back of the venue. Powell was suddenly isolated in front of Blunkett and couldn't deliver the surprise blow he’d intended. Instead, Dave smashed the PA man on the bonce with his microphone, moving with lightning reflexes. Powell slumped onto the ground and was quickly surrounded by a crowd of evil looking power electronics fans. In the confusion the truly sadistic instincts of Neil Spencer took over. He slid off the stage and as a flurry of fists and boots rained on the hapless PA man, he removed a long thin blade from one of his foul-smelling army surplus boots.

Jim Whale, who'd been sent under much protest by his editor at the NME to cover this event, was at that moment making for the exit as swiftly as he could. God knows held been expecting something dodgy but this Hitler Rally thing took the biscuit. Was he ever going to have a big story or next week's issue!