The news that Deep Purple are coming to Dublin brings back teenage memories of Parabola (aka Rivet, Horseflesh, Weazel Thunder and Anglegrinder), the heavy metal band without amps, writes John Kelly
THE INDEFINITE ARTICLE: There was a band called Parabola in my home town. They were a heavy metal band and proud of it - the way they walked their flappy-haired walk said much about the belief they had in their heavy metal ways. They had badges, they had scarves and they had embroidered "Parabola" on the backs of their denim jackets - a logo they constantly reproduced in Teutonic script on the backs of their schoolbooks.
In the past the totally deluded Parabola had gloried in other names like Rivet, Horseflesh, Weazel Thunder and Anglegrinder, and the fact that they didn't know a single song from beginning to end was just a minor detail. That there were only two members in the "band" and that they had no equipment between them was also neither here nor there.
Most rock bands would have been immediately scuppered by the absence of electricity, but not Parabola. Yes, they eventually bought two electric guitars - both Fender copies and quite presentable from a distance - but the real problem remained the lack of amplifiers and, by extension, any audible sound. Fortunately for Parabola, however, they didn't actually play anywhere, so the fact that they couldn't be heard never needed to be addressed.
In the privacy of their own bedrooms, however, Parabola soon discovered how to make a certain noise with their unplugged guitars. By pressing the ends of the instruments against a wardrobe it was possible to create a dull but audible buzz thanks to the furniture's woody acoustic. What it meant was that they could play the opening riffs of Smoke on the Water all day long and imagine that an appreciative sea of latex-clad women was staring back at them - all glossy lipstick and big hair. That sort of thing passed the time in my home town.
Parabola were certainly not unique. And despite the ridiculousness of heavy metal, it was often the music of local choice. Punk, post-punk, new wave, disco and whatever else had little effect on that hard core who listened only to Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, Rainbow, Motorhead, AC/DC and the preposterous Whitesnake.
Of course, it was no more than an affectation. Metal just happened to be the music that young boys in our part of the world, at a certain age, listened to at that time. If northern soul had been the majority alternative, we'd have gone for that, or funk, or disco, or, in fact, anything at all. The important thing was that you belonged to a tribe - and heavy metal, for all its delicate needlework, its badges and its white boots, promised some kind of fraternity.
It also suggested the permanent availability of those women with the huge perms and the latex legs. And any access to that kind of thing would have amounted to a significant improvement in typical male, teenage, Co Fermanagh circumstances. And it was all so easy.
To become a rocker, even pretend ones like the two unmusical members of Parabola, all you had to do was wear the clothes, grow your hair, find out about Lemmy and go to the local lending library and take out a Motorhead album called Bomber.
Motorhead were the loudest band in the world and their fans, boasting that the volume made your ears bleed, hitch-hiked to Belfast for the pleasure.
It was serious stuff and, for those hard-rocking deaf-metallers who spent their evenings at the embroidery, it was always absolutely vital to get that umlaut on the second O. Nothing worse than being laughed at after all that patient embroidery - a missing umlaut, spelling Ozzy with an S or, most embarrassing of all, not realising that Krokus was spelt with two Ks.
School discos were the jittery events where heavy rockers like Parabola came into their own. These were twilight events which happened once a month amid great tension and speculation, all of it confused and misdirected as the school was transformed into something almost exciting and glamorous.
And although girls soaked in Anais Anais promised the pressured warmth of a slow dance, the metallers were not really in the running. Some girls were aware of Thin Lizzy because there were always pin-ups of Phil Lynott in Jackie, but mostly they were only interested in Haircut 100 and Duran Duran. So all the rockers could do was wait for the end, hurry to that stage of the evening where they would yield once again to the tyrannies of attraction and count themselves out.
They would form a circle and shake their heads to the zig-zagging chords of A Whole Lotta Rosie and hit every note on their imaginary guitars. Backs broke sweat, shirts clung, aftershave reeked, necks ached, brains spun, gutties slipped and hearts sank as the powerchords stopped and girls reappeared to move to Wonderful Tonight with short-haired boys with clear skin, well-ironed cords and yellow golfing jumpers.
All this horror comes to mind simply because Deep Purple are coming to play in Dublin. Ritchie Blackmore won't be with them, but it hardly matters. Thousands of metallers and rusty ex-metallers will be there to bang their heads, make Devil's Horn signs and explode with excitement at the first crunchings of Smoke on the Water.
The word in my home town is that Parabola are re-forming especially for the evening. Lock up your daughters etc.