Candy and the Firestorm 'You're rock candy baby, hot, sweet and sticky'

“Here I come again now baby I’m like a bitch in heat.”

OK, it’s not the sort of thing you expect to hear from your sister, but she had half the audience panting like corgis chasing a milk float. For my part I was trying to keep in time with Dave and Phil, and trying not to reflect too much on a busy week.

Monday evening we’d had our usual practice session in the garage, half of which had been talking about my transformation into Candy. I had reservations about repeating it, not least because I feared being found out — not just for a boy, but a boy who was thoroughly enjoying it.

“You heard the man Martin,” Dave was getting hot under the collar, “if Candy doesn’t play, we don’t play!”

“It’s alright for you two, you’re not the ones standing there in a skirt,” I hoped I wasn’t protesting too much. In truth, a shiver ran down my spine every time I thought about the gig.

“You’ll be fine Martin,” Bethany put an arm around my shoulder, “everyone who knew kept their gob shut didn’t they?” I nodded, and she continued, “We’ll have more time to get ready on Friday night, I can really fix you up, so good Mum and Dad wouldn’t recognise you.”

Mum and Dad were another problem. I’d just about reconciled myself to my sister knowing about my ‘dirty little secret’, the thought of what my parents would do scared me more than a little. The best thing about playing on Fridays was that they both went out early to the bingo; Mum to play, Dad to call the numbers — we have showbiz in our blood.

“But wear something a bit longer this time please,” Phil quipped, “Dave dropped his sticks twice letching at your legs.”

We finally got down to practicing. Friday’s set would be longer, and we didn’t want to run out of material again. I was itching to put some Randy Rhoads into the set, and had been for while, hence Phil’s suggesting for my name. As much as I loved Eddie Van Halen, Randy had something extra; he sounded like Eddie, until you tried to play his stuff. After a few months I was just about figuring out exactly what he was doing. By then I’d seen his picture in ‘Kerrang!’, and spent an afternoon painting white polka dots on my Flying-V to look like his. Besotted is probably the best word, although it cut no ice with our leader who applied her veto, telling us she wasn’t going to sing ‘any fucking Ozzy Osbourne songs’.

My sister didn’t wait until Friday to start work on me. Our parents left us alone in the house while they visited my aunt. Bethany dragged me away from the garage to her room the minute the car left the drive.

“Catch,” she said, throwing a Marks and Spencer bag at me, “this’ll stop you wearing mine.” Inside were two bras, and two pairs of knickers, nothing as fancy as she — and I —wore, but pretty all the same. Suitably knickered I returned to her room, blushing furiously, where she was already laying clothes out on the bed.

“That’s a bit too short, isn’t it?” I pointed at a dress she had laid on top of the pile.

“Rubbish, now lift your arms up,” knowing my sister of old, I complied. “You’ve got no hips Candy sweetie, so we’re going to show off your legs.

“Is this why you bought me new panties,” I said, pulling at the hem, “cos they’ll be on show to everyone?”

My sister can be frighteningly organised, and I was quickly sat at her dresser having my face painted — two coats, plus gloss. I looked like one of my own wet dreams, big, smoky eyes competed with a full on pout that was only slightly redder than the streaks of blusher, slashed across my cheeks. I suggested that she had overdone it a bit.

“How would you feel about going blonde?” was her answer, “hmm we’d better ask Mum first.”

Our biggest problem was my bust. I’d got by on the night with a few pairs of tights stuffed in each cup, but they left a lot to be desired. We tried balloons, without success, and finally hit on the idea of filling pop socks with pudding rice. They looked about right, but felt awkward. Bethany suggested I tried them with the guitar.

“They don’t move with you like real boobs,” Bethany observed, “try not moving your upper body so much, work your hips more.”

“I thought you said I didn’t have any,” I sniped.

“All the more reason to get wiggling then.”

We spent the next hour working on how I should move on stage. The way I was shaking my bum I was sure Phil wouldn’t be able to play for laughing. Watching myself in the mirror, I had to admit I looked pretty good, and began to relax, which looked even better. Still, it was difficult to come to terms with how quickly everything had happened.
Friday night, dressed to kill, I sauntered — read tottered — into the Coach and Horses, back-combed and fabulous. My sister hadn’t had her wish to make me blonde fulfilled, but her friend from tech had feathered my hair, giving it a lot more shape; hairspray had given it about as much additional shape as my neck could support. Heads turned, wolves whistled, and women seethed. However, I resisted blushing until I heard ‘jail bait’.

Playing on a Friday night was a big step up. Thirty or so people were already in the basement when we arrived, and more trickled in as we set up. My new knickers had an airing when I bent to plug in my overdrive pedal — damn dress — earning an appreciative ‘phwoar’ from the bar. I blushed again, but those cheeks weren’t on show. There were more than sixty watching as we kicked off our act, and for a moment I thought Bethany looked nervous. I may have been mistaken, Bethany didn’t look nervous very often.

We’d added Ted Nugent’s ‘Stranglehold’ that week. It had a fairly simple, slinky riff, and an overtly sexual lyric for Bethany to grapple with. The two boys were in clover as the middle section was practically all bass and drums, to which I added short guitar fills standing at Bethany’s shoulder as she wrapped herself around the mic stand. The ‘stage’ was only two feet high, so we were at eye level with the taller guys in the audience. Suddenly, my sister pulled one of the better looking ones towards and frenched him. She lingered a little before pushing him away, obviously unsatisfied he caught my neck and gave me the rest of the kiss, or as much as he could before big sis shoved him again. As he stepped back she had a good look at my tongue on its way out past his lips.

“You didn’t?” her back was turned to the audience, who couldn’t see quite how wide her eyes were.

“He took me by surprise,” the look she shot back made it plain she didn’t believe that.

“We’re going to have to talk about that later,” my big sister hissed.

“OK,” I had to keep my eyes on my hands as I played, it had surprised me too. “Do you want your chewing gum back?” I knew I’d regret that grin before the night was out.

Quite a few blokes must have fancied their chances with us after that, and I had to step back a couple of feet to avoid craning necks for the rest of the show. Wiggling probably didn’t help much either, but I’d made it into a groove and couldn’t seem to climb out, especially when we played ‘Rock Candy’.

It was an old Montrose number we’d picked up from Sammy Hagar. The ‘Red Rocker’ wasn’t all that well known in those days, but he toured the UK every year, stopping off to play at our Town Hall. Its riff was a strut, and my stuff was strutted right across the stage - at least until I caught the lead with my heel. Fortunately, I didn’t go down, not all the way, and barely enough to show I was wearing clean knickers. I recovered in time to play the solo, for which I had a little surprise for the rest of the band. Even if Bethany wouldn’t sing an Ozzy song, I could still squeeze in a bit of a Randy Rhodes. Making sure the boys knew to follow me, I launched into a series of rapid arpeggios, and trills, I’d lifted from one of his solos that happened to fit in with the song. My eyes closed, and I just let it flow, kicking on the pedal to give it a bit more oomph. When I opened them again at the end of the solo, I realised that for the first time that evening, more eyes were on the fret board than my legs.

“She’s rock candy baby,” Bethany was singing, “hot, sweet and sticky”. If only she’d known how true that was, but I was already in enough trouble.