Blood Band

I was at the bar, deep in conversation with a delightful young gothic girl, when the music on the hi-fi twanged off and out. Pete the barman had been trying to butt into the conversation, which I thought was extremely rude. His comments of “Hoi! Go outside if you’re going to do that!”, and “You dirty bugger! There’s people trying to drink in here!” were quite distracting. The jealous old sod had even flicked a towel at me while I was innocently trying to clear a space on the end of the bar so that we could get more comfortable. So much for Irish hospitality. It made me grateful that my distant ancestors had decided not to swim across to the emerald isle after all.

A cloud of smoke billowed from under the stage. The lights dimmed. It looked as if the main act of the evening was about to make its appearance. Sure enough, there came the familiar rumble as Ian strummed his bass. Heads started to turn. Seats were pushed back from tables. I climbed off the bar and straightened my shirt, making sure that my fly was zipped. My companion sat up, shook her hair back into place and handed me a beer. She took a swig of the bacardi concoction she’d been drinking, and seemed quite comfortable sitting on the end of the bar. She leaned forward, a sparkle in her eyes, and was about to say something deep and meaningful when the howl of a guitar cut through the smoke-filled air.

Before the second chord had been struck I was heading for the stage, being jostled by the rest of the club as they leapt to their feet and joined the lemming run. Because that howl could mean only one thing. Blood was here. And they were heading straight into “The Legions.”

Club Image

Image was one of the sleazier clubs in town, nestling in the heart of the downtown industrial area. It wasn’t the kind of place your mother warned you about, but only because she had no idea that such places actually existed outside of Dante’s third circle. Every Saturday and Sunday morning, shortly after dawn, the underground club would belch forth a stream of punks, skins and headbangers, who would blink wonderingly at the sunrise, shake their heads to clear the last of the alcohol from their brains, then stagger off to lay low until it was time to start all over again.

I had been there last night, but honestly couldn’t remember a thing after bumping into the two big lads on the roof. This might have been somehow related to the bottle of tequila they’d been passing around, although even that was hazy. Could have been vodka. Or petrol.

I managed to reach the balcony, grabbing my colours on the way and searching through the pockets for a pair of shades. Mick’s flat was on the first floor, giving him an alternative exit whenever the authorities decided to raid the place. Unfortunately for society in general, most of these “raids” were false alarms. Like this one.

Irish Club

The Irish Club was situated above the Hillbrow Squash Courts, on the corner of Pretoria and Edith Cavell streets. There was no signboard. No fluorescent lights. No indication to the casual passerby that there was anything at all above the courts. Except maybe for the rabble spilling out onto the street in between sets, a heaving, sweating mass of hair and tattoos, denim and leather.

The Irish had started out as a social hangout for Hillbrow’s Irish community, but had somehow been taken over by the metal crowd. Friday nights, it was a bar. You could take along your favourite tapes, and listen to them while having a drink or two with your mates. But on Saturdays…

On Saturdays there was a stage built out of beer crates. Two or three of the heaviest bands in Jo’burg would be sure to turn up. There had been festivals, starting early in the day, where a dozen or more bands would gig one after the other, through to the small hours of Sunday morning. Viking had played a few times. Strider. Lynx. Desecrated Altar. Helter Skelter. 2 Dogs Funking. The Blast. And the fans would come swarming from all around.

Ragnarok was on stage now, all attitude and swagger, ripping through a GBH cover. Everybody loved Ragnarok. Loud as fuck, no posing, hair flying as they banged their way through the set. And they’d brought their fans with them, bouncing around in the moshpit, waving their beers in the air and playing air-guitar.

Introduction

Enter a dark underworld where rock stars and ancient demons collide.

A teenaged misfit hired by a private investigator to find a missing girl stumbles into a twisted conspiracy of magickal forces battling to decide the fate of the human race. Old friendships are pushed to the breaking point. Who are the shadowy cult members stalking his every move? Why is a horned beast following him from one bar to the next? Can he find the girl before they do? Will any of this cut into his drinking time?

Combining music, mysticism & mayhem, this work of fiction is set against the real rock n roll underworld of 1980s Johannesburg. A humble tribute to the lost generation, to those of us who survived, and to the fallen heroes who live on in our hearts.
 
Reviews
5.0 out of 5 stars. There's dark, and there's twisted. Then there's Burning Roses...
Brilliant first novel. Sex magick rituals in nightclubs. Ancient demons in the mosh pit. Dozens of easter eggs, hilarious subtle references to song lyrics and dead musicians, which had me snorting coffee out my nose.
If this is how people lived in the 80s, I'm surprised anyone survived. But I'm glad they did. And that they came back to tell us how.
Can't wait for another book from this dude.
 
4.0 out of 5 stars. Well written.
A really good story that brings back many memories of jolling in Joburg Central in the early 90's. Enjoyable reading from beginning to end.
 
5.0 out of 5 stars. A great read for those wanting to reminisce about the old days.
Having spent my youth in similar surrounds, John captures the essence of Hillbrow, Johannesburg superbly! A great read for those wanting to reminisce about the old days!
 
5.0 out of 5 stars. Loved it.
Loved it. A decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick, and it lived up to the promise on the cover. Highly recommended.