Mr Underground live at Crafted
The bar door swings open and the room erupts in cheers and whistles as the man on the tip of everyone’s tongue, saunters in — Tom O’Neill or Mr Underground as he’s more commonly known for his command over The Underground bar’s music scene. He strolls through the room, wearing everyone’s stare like a Rolex watch. He points left, he points right, dropping names with a socialite’s swagger. “Jake the Snake, Colin, Jazelle, Dennis Farnaby.” He knows everybody, and everybody knows him.
He walks past a table of six women and selects two lucky ladies to take into the bathroom for a bit of the old slap and tickle. The man oozes rock ‘n’ roll. After giving the two girls an experience of a lifetime, he struts out of the gents’ toilet and makes his way behind the bar, much to the disgust of one unknowing punter.
“OOOP KNOBBER!”
The customer cries out naively.
“AM NORRAVIN THAT!”
The man gestures to the bar staff in disgust but O’Neill simply sniggers, as he pours himself a pint and gestures to the bouncer to rid the bar of this riff-raff. This sorry sucker has no idea how lucky he is to just be sharing the same room as this legend of the scene.
The doorman Blake Quiffley is quick to the scene and is over almost immediately. The man is dragged from the premises kicking and screaming, before being taken ‘round the back for a good pasting. Good riddance, I say.
After signing a few autographs, the musical maverick makes his way to the stage. He hushes the crowd and they quieten at his command. He then beckons from a sea of faces, a young man clad in a classic Italian football jersey, a pair of ginormous trousers, and a pair of dad trainers.
“This is Tom II.”
The room gasps.
“Is he your son?!”
A faceless voice cries out.
“He is not… he is but a disciple."
He turns to his young apprentice and gives him a solid look of affirmation. A look that says “give ‘em hell” or “you’ve got this champ”. O’Neill turns back to the crowd and with one smooth wink of his eye, whispers down the microphone.
“It’s time.”
And just like that the show commences, O’Neill playing backing guitar and Tom II leading the way. Fluorescent lights circle the room and bathe the crowd in a lightshow of electric love. It’s hit after hit, the kid’s a natural, there’s even a few indie covers thrown in to please the old timers like me. He has the crowd by the balls.
The room is an ocean of song, crashing against the front of the stage in rhythmic waves. I feel 25 again, but as quick as my youth is returned it is snatched away from my poor, wrinkling palms. It’s a look, just the one, that sends tremors down my spine. I see a jealousy in the eyes of Mr Underground, an inferiority that burns deep within him. Could this young man now performing be the heir to the Mr Underground fortune, an inheritance of unimaginable credibility?
“That’s enough.”
O’Neill speaks softly in to the mic. The crowd goes silent. With one shove Tom II is ejected from the stage and dragged from the premises by the ever-efficient Blake Quiffley.
“Thank you Blake. Now… time for me.”
Fireworks explode on stage sending a flash of blinding light across the busy venue. A laser show commences, engulfing the whole bar in astoundingly impressive visuals, as the one and only Mr Underground steps up to the mic.
He kicks off the set with one of his golden oldies— “It’s all about me” and it’s enough to make these old legs want to dance the night away.
“Look I know how great I am I ain’t no fool,
I’m slicker than a long haired lover from Liverpool,
cos I’ve got the biggest bouncing barnett in BFD,
did I tell you Jack Grealish styled his hair after me?
Cos I’m hot.”
“Ooh Mr Underground turn down the heat…”
The female population of the crowd sing back in perfect harmony.
“You’ve got the girls stripping right down to their feet!”
I watch flabbergasted as they fan their faces with flamboyant hand gestures. I am truly in awe at his command over a crowd, but that’s when I notice it. I adjust my readers. It’s as if his skull is swelling beneath his skin. No one seems to notice. The women? Hell, they couldn’t give a damn, they can’t get enough of him.
“A just wanna stick his head in me tits!”
A middle-aged red head cries out with raw unadulterated passion as she unhooks her brazier and starts swinging her breasts around like a fast moving clock.
The bra is then flung on to the stage and is caught in the teeth of Mr Tom O’Neill. True rockstar behaviour. He keeps the crowd alive and quickly moves onto another fan favourite — The Star of the Show. It’s a catchy little ditty, this is the reason he’s known as the genre spanner. Think of the Grease soundtrack having a love child with every swinging song of the 70s. Tom is in his element as he sings.
“I need a stud with guns at his physical peak,
uh huh huh,
I need a man who hits the gym twice a week,
uh huh huh,
Well I said, you know me baby I set the bar,
And I ripped my shirt off in Al’s Juke bar!
Cos I’m the star.”
“He’s the star of the show.”
The ladies jump in, clicking their fingers to this bold and ballsy beat.
“I’m the coolest cat you’ll ever know,
I walk into the Underground unannounced,
Uh huh huh,
I’m bringing the talent by the tonne not the ounce,
Uh huh huh,
You know I’m the star and I’m shining so bright.
and I say, hey Nigel I’m playing here tonight!”
At this point O’Neill’s head is closer in size to an exercise ball than that of a regular old swede.
“‘Kin ‘ell lad, seen size on his melon?!”
a young gentleman in a tracksuit and Stone Island cap blurts out to me. But the bouncer Blake is on the ball as always, springing suddenly from the shadows to deliver a deadly karate chop into the neck of the poor chap, who hits the deck almost immediately.
The tone suddenly takes a serious turn as O’neill moves on to his own rendition of the 2006 hit “The Black Parade” by My Chemical Romance. The cover explores his recent decision to expand his brand beyond the reaches of The Bradford Underground. He strokes his fringe over his left eye and makes musical love to the mic.
“He said will you defeat them?
your doubters,
and all the non-believers,
be better than all the bands they’ve seen!
Because one day, you’ll make a decision, to rock some other street…
AND JOIN THE NORTH PARADE!!”
Several old timers local to the street faint from the raw emotion, his powerful voice tears through me like a gale force wind in winter, and I button up my cardigan. It’s at this point the entrance doors almost burst off their hinges, as Nigel the proprietor of The Underground Bradford, bursts through the door, fighting his way desperately through the manic crowd.
“Stop!”
He screams at the top of his lungs, before gripping the manager of Crafted — Kieran Littlewood by the neck and lifting him several feet off the ground.
“He’s ours you hear?! He’s the property of The Underground Bar, Bradford!”
It’s a moment of significant cultural importance. My mind is cast back to that hot summer of 1967 when Elvis Presley attempted to escape the controlling clutches of manager Colonel Tom Parker by burrowing a tunnel out of Las Vegas under the scorching Nevada desert. Hot on his heals of course was the Colonel, commanding a hungry pack of lizards on a state wide manhunt for the king of rock ’n’ roll.
“He belongs to us, you hear me boy?! He belongs to us!”
Nigel continues before being cut short by a booming laugh that shakes the very foundations of the room, sending rubble and dust crashing to the floor below.
“I belong to no one.”
O’Neill roars down the mic.
“I’ve become more powerful than anyone could ever have imagined. Now… BOW TO ME MINIONS!”
His terrifying voice rattles the room, with eyes that glow like two tiny stars, he fires a powerful beam that incinerates an elderly Irishman at the back of the room.
The crowd screams in horror and start to flee, clambering over each other to get to the door. The attempt to escape is ultimately in vain as a second beam takes out the roof above the exit, trapping his audience inside.
The musical muscles of his mind now work overtime in his ever-expanding cranium. His pulse races to the beat of “The View From the Afternoon” as his head swells to several times its regular size, in hope of accommodating his unfathomable ego.
“I am Bradford, I AM GOD!”
He screams before taking flight and bursting out through the roof above, I perform a perfectly timed army roll to avoid the falling debris and pause for a second to listen. In the distance I hear screams, explosions, and the destruction of a city I hoped to grow old living in. I lift myself to my feet and compose myself amongst the chaos.
“Oh well.”
I sigh and pull my mobile phone out from my dust covered trouser pocket, before booking my Uber home.