Monocled Alchemist

Article published in Sounds, 26th January, 1980

The Revillos | Fingers In The Dyke | EEYI Where’s de party? Doncha know Halloween finished last year?” calls a bedenimed, joint-brandishing Hell’s Angel from the open window of a Dutch canal-side tattoo parlour.

“Go scoop your brains out and stick a candle in there,” retorts an amused Eugene Reynolds from underneath his quivering quiff.

“Piss ooff!” yells Fay Fife, waggling her ‘warning-hazard’ earrings imperiously.

Next second we are skidding over bridges on either side of the street, me, seven Revillos and photographer/ Dutch adviser Danny, and leaving behind the ‘picturesque’ lanes of Amsterdam’s red light district with its aptly named ‘Pouff’ club and meat-shop displayed whores.

It’s just as well, since the knife-carrying Dutch motorbike boys are less domesticated than the nostalgic British versions. I’m beginning to realise that this sort of thing happens to the Revillos quite often. They do not look normal.

Fay: “I like the way I look. I’ve been dressing this way for years now,” (Sixties gaudy plastic clashing, loads of black eyeliner and backcombed barnet) “and I look like this every day. It’s certainly not a case of dressing up for the stage.”

The Revillos | Fingers In The Dyke

I dare to mention the B.52s. Fay is not amused. “I did like that song ‘Planet Claire’ but it’s a load of pish to compare us to them. All the papers went on about the B.52s being ‘Rezilloesque` and now we’re supposed to be like them! They probably arrived at gigs in anoraks.”

The day before, I first set foot on Holland’s soil (which turns out to be antiseptic concrete) and wonder how akin to the Rezillos the band will be. The significance of a ‘zed to a vee’?

My ears popping from the confines of a clapped-out DC-9 and temper bristling from the search a zipped leather jacket always invites, I even wonder where the hell the Revillos are! Christ, it’s bloody freezing.

Seven hours, several Dutch gins and a veal and mushroom escalope later, I find them on the mini stage of an old church hall in Apeldorn. My report is as follows . . .

LIKE SEVEN sardines packed into a tin for two, the squashed Revillos treat and mistreat their audience accordingly. Fay’s knowing belligerence — “I know all about you. Ye wear cloggs an’ ye eet cheese” — and her sparkly chirpy vocals.

Self-importance

Eugene’s leering self-importance and striking intonation. The Dutch mirror my reactions. There’s so much to watch from the syncopated backing sounds and choreography of back-up Revettes Babs and Cherie, plus Fay on occasions, to Felix and Hi-Fi Harris’ bass/guitar relationship.

Robo Rhythm just plays drums. Flashily. Their music depends heavily on the sight and sound link up leaving an impression that live Revillos are great, singles Revillos are wacky, but a Revillos album would get right up my nose.

The Revillos | Fingers In The Dyke

It’s ‘cheap’ and quick, musical MacDonalds, and retains a unique throwaway charm. First single ‘Where’s The Boy For Me?‘ stands out as the classic pastiche 45 that did nothing; the typical teenage girl’s lament at a disco or a Revillos gig; while ‘Voodoo‘ is odd pop mystery assault.

I don’t like the new single ‘Motor Bike Beat’ (mind you, on ‘Round Table’, D Harry and J Strummer may well have disagreed) but I’m a sucker for their expert oldies, ‘Hippy Hippy Shake‘ and ‘Dancing In The Street’.

Mods? Rubbish! Fay’s dress reminds me of loose-knit armour as she belts out the melody on an additional instrument, keyboards, with the tinny Farfisa accompaniment just made for the Revillos’ basically ‘tinny’ sound.

Three encores for fanatical cloggies before Mitch, the band’s leopard-skinned roadie, shakes his head and it’s all over. Whether or not the Revillos will have success in Britain is debatable; but I’ve a feeling Europe will take them to heart.

THE HISTORY of the Revillos is simple. After the Rezillos split up (and I’m not going into that well-worn story) there were problems as far as contracts go.

Quiffs

Fay: “We spent a lot of time in closing our contract with the Rezillos label, Sire. Little was done between bands and we needed new musicians. Hi-Fi Harris used to play guitar for the Rezillos when the band began and Robo Rhythm —that’s spelt with one b! — is Eugene’s brother. The problem was finding the bassist, that’s Felix, and backing singers.”

Eugene: “Lots of girls answered our advert and they’d come along complaining that their boyfriends objected. If they could sing we’d maybe say ‘Come along for another audition’ and they’d say ‘Scotland! I’m sure my boyfriend wouldn’t want me to go that far.’ That’s what we were up against ’till we found Babs and Cherie. Boyfriends!”

By now, the three of us are crammed into the middle section of a very large car and on our way to Amsterdam. Having spent most of the morning in one of ‘Ideal Homes’ (inappropriately a health and beauty farm) watching Eugene perfect his hair with over twenty guilders (that’s a fiver) worth of hairspray and everyone else boils eggs, peace and quiet is appreciated.

Quiffs and bouffants aside, the band have a handy control when it comes to gigging.

The Revillos | Fingers In The Dyke

Fay: “We’ve bought all our equipment from instruments to the P.A. and lighting rig. Everything’s compact enough to pack into one van so we can move easily, and set up and dismantle easily; the P.A. is very small for example and it gives us a tinny sound that suits the music.”

AMSTERDAM is a small city where bicycles take precedence over cars, and tram drivers are out to ‘kill’ all other road users. The original idea is to take photographs but everyone ends up in an Italian snack bar eating spaghetti carbonara — very Dutch —before wheeling it out to the cheese village of Edam in search of a handy windmill.

There’s nothing nastier than traversing the once sea-covered outer fringes of Holland and having to stand on dykes, four degrees below freezing, every few minutes for snapshots. The Revillos are not taking it well.

“I’m not sure about those shots,” mutters Eugene from somewhere behind my left ear. “Let’s get to the gig in Zaandam,” mumbles Fay, “I’m freezing.” Silence.

The Revillos are a fine band and they get nine out of ten in my entertainment ratings so why is it I get the feeling that the two ex-Rezillos share all the limelight?

I sense no ill amongst any of the bandpersons, ‘cept maybe tour manager Phil who’s excused ‘cos he had a septic anatomy, but can’t help noticing that Eugene’s demands for peace in which to glue his hair in place are carefully placated. Likewise Fay.

And it’s disturbing ‘cos I’ve never seen this ‘ring of honour’ surrounding lead singers (or founder members) in any other band that I’ve talked too; after a day or so with this crew the wafts of ‘importance’ are hard to disguise.

Motor Bike Beat

However, I’ll leave that for the Revillos to sort out later and leave last Revillo comments for Fay.

“I like our new single far more than the last — No, I’m not bothered about what the press said about ‘Motor Bike Beat’ — but right now we’re living off gigs and scraping ‘cos there’s no expenses, The Revillos will need about six hit singles before we make anything out of recording. We’ll get them too.”

SAFELY cocooned in the 707 seat back to civilisation and ‘having more care taken of me’ as it goes in the advert, I collect together the solutions to the early questions.

Two of the Revillos are very ‘Rezilloesque’ and the rest are different and though a mere three gigs a week means it’ll take some time to establish the band, you’re never to think that they’re anything like a ‘cut-price’ Revillos.

Far from it, even if nothing is ‘quite’ as good the second time around. Comment addressed to Revette in icy cold Apeldorn bar: “I think this conversation it is coming to the end now. We go to get some refrigeration.” (Robbi Millar)