Biography
http://www.jonnycolaandtheagrades.net/
London, this fallen city. Reclaimed by the old boys, scrubbed and neutered, wired up and hyper-connected, ruinously expensive. But still London.
A pigeon’s eye view along a main road in an as-yet ungentrified neighbourhood of Zone 2. Outer commuters thunder through on buses, bendy and otherwise, with barely a glance at the nail parlours and chicken joints, the deceased pubs. On the top floor, behind rotting window frames, hidden away from the world, sits Jonny Cola. Twin screens light the room - laptop spewing out triviality and TV showing endless reruns of Only Fools And Horses on mute. The flickering of the latter plays on the racks of vinyl and CDs, once alphabetised and now largely neglected. Jonny sighs, briefly overwhelmed by the horror, the horror, takes a good long drink, and clicks Send.
*Low-budget special effects sequence*
Gasping, Jonny hits the pavement in a cloud of smoke and glitter. We pull out to reveal four men in black and leopard print leaning against the iron railings of an East London square. Simon is the tall one, really tall, in the PVC jacket, all ex-pat Brummie scorn and eyeliner. Marco is Irish-Italian, hops freight trains and can operate a forklift at the drop of a hat. Mauro and Jez are the leaders of this motley crew, twin dynamos with a psychic link stretching from Santiago to Stoke-on-Trent, sharp-eyed and ready for anything.
Jonny is smitten.
With a smile, the two axemen step forward. Mauro clicks his fingers, sounds a pure E, and all the pigeons in London rise in a vast cloud, blocking out the setting sun and fanning out to the suburbs. With a wail of feedback, Jez seizes up his guitar. Marco slams the kick and Simon spits out a growling, rumbling bass riff. Eyes shining, Jonny steps up to the mic and it all just melts away - the wasted years, the disappointment, the overpriced and substandard food and booze and trains and clubs and drugs and the rest of it, the fear of getting stabbed or shot or simply ignored, the terrible over-privileged sons of sons of sons running the whole shoddy debacle from a high-security bunker in Belgravia or Mayfair or Hampstead Garden Suburb… For a moment, for just one tiny little fraction of an instant, it all just disappears.
Forget your postcode wars and find something that’s worth fighting for… now.
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