Román Leão

Tag: national-loaf

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Black Eyes & Cowboy Bollocks [ficção]

    ARTICLE, ROCK HOUND MAGAZINE, VOLUME 3, ISSUE 12 |  1969

    After a contentious autumn spent recording their new record, Cut the Loaf, it looks like the groundbreaking English band, National Loaf, may have gone and done just that. Guitarist and frontman Lucious Cole declined to comment on what lead up to an on-stage fistfight between himself and bassist Simon Wilkie at New York’s Fillmore West, but insiders mentioned smoldering band tensions regarding the new direction that Cole was taking the group.

    Long known for their English pop anthems and lysergically-charged psychedelic freak-outs, Cole recently spoke about a desire to simplify the band’s sound in a desire to “get back to what’s real.” Keyboardist Koda Cornell’s work on the new album certainly shows an affinity with the new material, his work on an antique tack piano especially fits in with what many critics have termed the Loaf’s American Gothic.

    Wilkie, he of the black eye, appears to be the most out-of-synch with the group’s new sepia-toned vibe. Fans of the bassist’s more outré forays on the four string were shocked at how straight he played it on the new songs. Before the show, Wilkie was overheard complaining to a fan that all Cole wanted was “that bloody oompah, oompah shite.” It didn’t help the situation that Cole had showed up late to the Loaf’s own release party with Mexican mariachi outfits for the band to wear.

    It’s unknown whether the band will continue without Wilkie, as he immediately told reporters that he was done with “Cole and all his American cowboy bollocks.” Rumors that Wilkie is putting together his own project, tentatively called, The Crust, have been unsubstantiated at press time.

    Jere Woodrow, founding member, and Cole’s best friend since childhood, was unavailable for comment after the Fillmore fracas, but it is this reporter’s bet that whatever Cole decides to do next, Woodrow will be involved, holding down the beat.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: On the Lash (1964) [ficção]

    SOHO, LONDON, ENGLAND  |  1964

    Simon Wilkie leaned his lanky frame against the brick archway of the Marquee Club’s new Wardour Street location and smoked. He was splitting his time watching girls running in and out of the boutiques and scanning the crowd for the rest of his band. The National Loaf had finally secured an opening slot for the latest Fab Four-wannabes and the group was primed to cut them to ribbons, if the rest of them showed, that was.

    “Oi, Si!” The voice of an ardent voyeur called from down the street. “The birds are certainly out today, eh, mate?”

    “Cornish, about time you slipped yer nan’s clutches,” Wilkie needled the one person in the band he felt close enough with to take the piss out of. “I thought I might have to do an extended bass solo, and I don’t know if this lot is ready for it.”

    Pianist Koda Cornell forced his focus away from a young woman in a raspberry A-line shift dress that danced above her knees as she walked. “Where are those wankers, anyway?”


    “Where were you?” Wilkie pitched his fag end into the street. “I feel like I’m the only one serious about this gig.”

    “Steady on, mate,” Cornell finally pulled both wandering eyes into focus on the situation. “You know those two, probably drunk as lords. I don’t know how Jere keeps up with that punter. He’s got a hollow leg, that one.”


    “Hollow leg?” Wilkie snorted. “Cole’s a bloody Trojan horse, he is. Seeing how those two prolly have a head start, buy you a pint?”

    “I thought you’d never ask.”

    “Did Simon just say he was buying?” Cole called from up the block, Woodrow in his wake, proving that he hadn’t yet burned out either his hearing or love of a free pint.

    “Fuck me,” Cornell bemoaned. “Mention the Devil and he appears.”

    “Cheers, good fellows,” Cole beamed. “Are you ready to tear this pile down? Mark my words, people in the future are going to lie and say they were here tonight just to sound gear.”

    “Let’s hope the room isn’t all phantoms,” Cornell spoke up. “Hard to shag a ghost.”

    “Fear not, my thirsty friend,” Cole mollified. “While you two were holding up the bricks, Jere and I were busy getting the word out… and here they come now.”

    The entire National Loaf turned to see a crowd of fashionable young women coming up the street.

    Jere, here, knows a secretary who works around the corner and just so happens has a lot of beautiful friends looking for something to do this evening.”

    “Cor, it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for,” Wilkie gave Woodrow a nod. “Well done, mate.”

    “All right, that sorted, let’s talk setlist,” Cole got down to business. “I thought we’d open with ‘On the Lash!’”

    We had better get drinking, then,” Cornell exclaimed. “We can’t very well play that one sober.”