Fuzzed among Equals

The Vindaloo roadshow blitzes Britain with firm-hold hairspray, firm-hold Fuzzbox parents, lobbed bunnies and drape jackets. Entertaining FUZZBOX, THE NIGHTINGALES and TED CHIPPINGTON are the tandoori team of CATH CARROLL (words) and CHRIS CLUNN (pics).

"Ted's the one who stands to make the money if 'Rockin' With Rita' is a hit . . . Bastard."

With We've Got A Fuzzbox And We're Gonna Use It skeetering on the verge of naming the day with WEA, Ted Chippington standing to make enough to keep him in drape jackets from here to eternity . . . what of Rob Lloyd and his Nightingales and his Vindaloo record label?

Though he may be calling his good mate Ted a bastard, Lloyd's expression is a lesson in Zen serenity. He is only kidding. "This tour is to give me space as a singer. It'd be cool if a 11 the acts on Vindaloo go their separate ways. "

That's very noble of you.

"It's not noble, it's just honest. People see Fuzzbox getting all the limelight and wonder if we're upset, but really, we're exploiting them in a way, because a bigger and broader audience get to see The Nightingales. Anyway, the Vindaloo label might not be around much longer."

Although the tour's idea may have been one of egalitarian fun, a commercially necessary hierarchy soon took over. Fuzzbox headlined every gig except the Manchester one, where Ted has an almighty following. Didn't this lead to tensions within the entourage?

"Maybe a couple of people at first thought, 'Oh, they're not as good musicians as we are, why are they getting all the attention', but they were soon won over. Anyway, there'd be a riot if people arrived halfway through the gig and found they'd missed Fuzzboxl"

The previous night in Birmingham was their triumphant return to their hometown. The Fuzzbox gals used to go to the weekly alternative discos at The Powerhouse and now they were guests of honour. Despite tour fatigue, they exuded multi-coloured buoyancy. Backstage with a handful of old school chums, they were doing the things that one always supposed healthy-minded 17-year-old young women ought to be doing. Mags was, in turn, carrying the standard for healthy-minded 21-year-olds. On entering the cupboard that is thinly disguised as their dressing room, one is instantly befuddled by the clouds of hairspray fallout and young things sporting bikini knickers and gaudy buntings. "Er, what time are you on? I ask one of the figures. "I'm not in the band," comes the crushing reply. Help. I take sanctuary in the comforting monochrome of Ted and The Nightingales' room next door.

Ted has, as usual, just arrived with his suitcase, minutes before going on. "Did I wear this suit last night?" he mumbles, retrieving a crumpled set list from the gabardine depths of his drape jacket. He only has two drapes, he mourns, one blue and one green. He doesn't know where to buy them. Someone organise this man.

Outside in the corridor comes the sound of high-pitched Tibetan chanting. Vicki is out there, two fingers pressed against the bridge of her nose, running through scales that seem to have originated in some lost civilization. She is trying to alleviate a throat complaint. As Ted would say, "Weirdness, Oh No".

The two young mohawk braves who have been trailing the Summer Special round the country have turned up again with their sleeping bags and back packs. In these packs they carry a handful of battered toy rabbits. It became customary for them to fling the bunnies at Ted whenever he pronounced "You ain't never killed a rabbit" in 'Hound Dog'.

Back in Birmingham, Tank, the 'Gales' axeman, and Maria their violinist, were reportedly smouldering over the review one had given them at Glastonbury. Did they have some lurid torture in store for when they got me back to the Balsall Heath HQ?

"Oh," grimaced Maria pleasantly, "that hadn't crossed my mind--I DON'T THINK"

Er, let's change the subject. How do you and Fuzzbox get on?

"We get on fine . . . people are surprised that I don't go and change in Fuzzbox's dressing room, since I'm the only female in this band, but I'm quite happy to stay here."

Howard the bassist, the one who sports a large pink triangle on his guitar strap, appears. What's it like to be the only gay person in The Nightingales? With the large percentage of what look like Kerrrang! readers appearing at Fuzzbox gigs nowadays, the odds are that he might be the target for some good, old fashioned homophobic missiles.

"No one seems to take any notice. Smash Hits called me a 'pervert' but it was only because that was their word of the week."

IN SEARCH of a theory with which to bind this motley crew of chums together, it seems sensible to go out and watch The Nightingales for clues. Their bastardised C&W two-step, laced with Tank's frenzied R&B pyrotechnics goes down splendidly with an audience already primed by Rockin' Chippington. Sandwiched, as they often are, in the middle of the bill, they provide stout r'n'r ballast to steady the spindly structure of Ted and his novelty tapes and the limp-wristed charm of Fuzzbox.

Watching the direction of each individual's gaze as the mob run through their turns is most revealing. Ted looks at his feet. Fuzzbox aim for the audience. Rob Lloyd looks over everyone's head at some glittering point in the future. As Fuzzbox enter to the dying trains of 'Girly Girly' and squeal their introduction to 'Aaargh', it becomes apparent that there is no theory. The only thing linking them is Rob Lloyd and his partner Patsy (who manages Fuzzbox). Rob is a mate of Ted's and has a paternal fondness for Fuzzbox. Patsy, an energetic mine of reliability, is the person who Rob lives with and is the reason why the Fuzzbox parents have finally agreed to trust the Vindaloo mafia with their delicate offspring.

After the Birmingham gig, Mags marched me off to meet 'the parents'. Vicki's family loom, tanned and clad in white Ski yoghurt wear. Her father grins determinedly and crumples my knuckles with a bone- splintering handshake. Just before we all leave, he leaves nothing to chance and gives me the benefit of another one. Jo and Mags' Ma and Pa radiate Gaelic bonhomie. Mrs Jo & Mags, clutching a dainty Instamatic, used to do a spot of singing herself she says and is the one who constructs the band's gauzy stage confections.

"It's quite hard to get hold of the girls for a fitting. Sometimes I'll make something for Mags and she'll go, 'Oh, that's more Vicki'. I made Jo a pair of flared shorts for the video because she won't wear dresses." Mr. and Mrs. are dragged off to feature in a massed family snap-in. The Fuzzboxes obligingly pout, index-fingers held rigid at their lips. Surveying the scene, it was pleasing to remember that in their a cappella version of 'Tutti Frutti', young tearaway Jo did not change the gender originally specified in the song by Little Richard. Given the definite tang of camp that pervades the Fuzzbox routines (putting paid to notions of simpering femininity pandering to macho insecurities), wouldn't it be nice to see Little Richard and Fuzzbox duetting together?

Wait a moment. What is this? Why, 'tis the next day already and the Vindaloo van is trundling round the Midlands picking up our merry balladeers. Mags had sensibly got the train down to London to visit a friend the previous night. The other three appear bright and breezy. Vicki's parents loom anew, rosy and clean at the windows of their matching house. My crumpled hand throbs resentfully. Rob, full of Zen, introduces us to a crate of Pils. Ted and his performing suitcase appear mysteriously on the pavement. In the back of the van, Vicki is canoodling with a fully accessorised luminous youth who answers to the name of 'Pi'. Tina is painting her nails, dousing them with acetone and then starting again. There is a great deal of spillage and the others rib her mercilessly. Every band must have their whipping post.

We stop at a motorway oasis and Jo and Tina load up proudly with junkfood. Tina considers her liver-coloured lolly. "There's not enough E numbers in this."

Bless them all. E numbers, toy rabbits, Hairspray and Zen. You can't get more rock 'n' roll than that, eh, kids?