Godfather Of The Music Business: Morris Levy

Richard Carlin

DID YOU hear the one about Undertones guitarist John O’Neill getting lifted by Special Branch before a gig in Southampton in 1980? Probably not. Even Undertones bassist Michael (Mickey) Bradley had forgotten the incident until O’Neill mentioned it to him as Bradley was in the midst of writing this memoir. The spooks returned O’Neill to the dressing-room and nothing more was said. Typical Undertones: even by the standards of young men from Northern Ireland in the 1970s, they didn’t ‘do’ talking. If they had, they might not have fallen apart in such a desultory fashion in 1983. Nor did they flaunt their abilities, like rock bands are supposed to do. But if The Undertones had been more like other bands, they wouldn’t have been so special. Anyone of the opinion that the Derry punk quintet made some of the greatest pop records ever, won’t discover how from reading this book. You’ve Got My Number, the Sistine Chapel ceiling of Undertones 45s, is Bradley’s favourite – above even My Perfect Cousin, the song he wrote with Damian O’Neill that was the band’s biggest hit – yet he confines his analysis thus: “A great opening riff, decent verses and a perfectly serviceable chorus.” To him, Teenage Kicks was “just another one of John’s songs”. Such self-effacement was doubtless a necessary shield from the barbs that Derry’s wits and rogues aimed at anyone deemed too uppity. Bradley’s wry approach sparklingly evokes growing up in a smalltown during an era when life, although constricted – not least by the Troubles – moved to a simpler beat. The absurd happenstance of the band’s journey plays out like a Bogside version of The Bash Street Kids: from sub-Faces shamblers in the O’Neill family kitchen, to Top Of The Pops in just three years, thanks largely to recruiting champion Gaelic singer and Radio Rentals employee Feargal Sharkey, and then discovering The Ramones. Weeks after John Peel played Teenage Kicks twice on one show, they became The Ramones’ labelmates. Within 12 months of earning £30 a week at Ballantine’s Builders Merchants, Bradley was touring the US with The Clash. Little wonder he couldn’t take it seriously. Bradley’s likeable conversational style reveals a potent mixture of innocence and calculation: clueless about the workings of the record industry, The Undertones were shrewd enough to realise their enclave mindset was an asset, guaranteeing relative longevity. The intrinsic tension of Sharkey’s position – their only natural star, he was also the only nonsongwriter – ultimately proved fatal, but even the band’s demise was suitably farcical as they got lost in France en route to their final gig at a Kildare festival and were promoted just below bill-toppers Dire Straits. “The Undertones,” deadpans Bradley. “Late for their own funeral.” All this and a cameo from Vanessa Redgrave. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry – with laughter, at the hapless publicity stunt of faking drummer Billy Doherty’s death – and you’ll marvel at how a band with such bad skin could become pop stars. Rollicking and poignant, My Life As An Undertone is, as they say in Derry, dead on.