The story truly begins in our beloved capital, where Simon and Marty made their first break into the business
as young sales assistants of Virgin Megastore. Having fun and digging the rock'n'roll of the times, they were even known to
rub shoulders with the occasional band. 'We met The Cult during the "Electric" sessions', says Marty. 'They thought we'd spiked
their pints with acid'. 'Yeah', agrees Si. 'They were cunts.' Having a constant laugh at the expense of the shopfloor manager,
the gruesome twosome were known to have sneaky ciggies, and maybe something a little stronger, in the store room. 'Those were
the days!' reminisces Marty.
Eventually, they took their talents South and set up camp in Poole Dolphin centre, where they opened up an
independent record shop. Here they could do things their way without having to adhere to The Man. 'We liked to get
in underground metal vinyl, give something back to the local rock fans', muses Si. 'We also had a board with our recommended
releases, illustrations by moi' explains Marty, in his spare time a talented freelance cartoonist.
Simon and Marty were keen to take youngsters under their wing, and expose them to the delights of hearing
the best metal records first and the delights of working with kindred spirits when it came to hard rock. 'We felt
we should give something back to the community' says Si. 'So we told local schools that their pupils would be welcome for
work experience.'
In return for a few cups of tea a day plus a few odd jobs here and there, the boys would give budding youngsters
immaculate reports and even a couple of CDs at the end of their two week tenure. 'I just used to tick "excellent" all the
way down', says Si, casually. 'It wasn't as if I was watching their every move.' But one day, their generosity backfired on
them.
'He just seemed like a normal kid' ponders Marty. 'Quiet, nice enough, wouldn't hurt a fly.' 'Yeah', agrees
Si. 'You certainly wouldn't think twice about taking him home to your Ma.' But cracks began to appear. ' He'd take a while
to go across the road to take your trousers to the dry cleaners, and once I noticed my tea was a bit sweet', remembers Si.
'Things just weren't adding up' states Marty.
Soon enough, it was all over, and a couple more kids would pass through the Falcon doors. 'There was one',
guffaws Marty, 'Who wouldn't do any work so Si said to him " Fraser, if you don't do some fucking work, I'm gonna take you
outside, pull down your trousers, and laugh at your tackle!"'
One day, a year or two later, the original work experience kid returned. According to the men incharge, he
was issuing strange threats. 'Something like, "I want four grand before Thursday, or else"' says Si. 'Couldn't make head nor
tail of it.' Forgetting it as soon as it allegedly happened, our heroes put it down to some drunken prank.
But that wasn't it.
That Thursday he returned with two Trading Standards liasons officers, brandishing a CD. 'I remember it all
too clearly', weeps Marty. 'They accused us of selling the little fucker a scratched CD, which he had obviously done for whatever
reason.' The boys protested their innocence and called the boy a hoaxster. 'But they looked at the stock,' sobs Si, 'and half
of it was scratched to buggery! I'd never had any complaints before, and besides, I'd always look at the condition of them
on stocktake day, and they were all fine the previous week!'
Despite the screams of 'Set up! Set up!', Trading Standards cleared the shop, and issued Si with the ultimatum:
' You have 24 hours to vacate this shop, and your houses, and anything else that has been paid for by your criminal empire,
or you will have to take the consequences.' The boys watched in heartbreaking agony as shelves were torn down, money was confiscated,
and underground metal vinyl melted. 'Watching your livelihood get destroyed in 4 short minutes right in front of you is the
hardest thing I have ever had to see' says Si, poignantly.
Homeless and hungry, the boys turned to a life of street crime and Special Brew. 'What else could we do?'
reasons Si. They killed a number of beggars in the Poole area to survive before eventually following the evil shit back to
the capital they were born. 'We knew that in order to rebuild our lives, we had to get him', barks Marty. 'And this was the
only way.'
But how? They were impoverished as it gets, living in the sewers, fighting for space and food with rats, and
to begin with, only wearing stuck-together leaves as underwear. 'That was before we learned how to truly survive', sneers
Si.
This is wear your faithful editor comes in to it. Having been told the agonising story by the little cunt
one drunken night, I decided to search for the fallen stars on my lunchbreaks. When I eventually did, I bought them some chips
from Burger King and we set up The Link. This way, what with me having to put up with the cunt most of the time, I could inform
Si and Marty of his whereabouts. I can't even imagine what they will do if they find him.
The thing is, the excess of the London streets has got to Si and Marty a little now. Drinking up to 17 (often
stolen) cans of Brew/Tennants/White Ace per day, their judgement has been more than a little marred. 'But we will get him!'
says Si, decisively.
And here's hoping they do. Long live Falcon Records.
And that's where we left it when this website was created. But, in the meantime, something occured. Did Si
finally choke on his 15th Brew that day? Did Marty finally get put inside forr all that drunken indecent exposure? Did the
two behemoths finally get their hands on 'im?....
Wrong, wrong and (at the moment) wrong again. See, the life of the Brewhead is only rewarding in one way.
That being in the purchasing of extra-strong lager. Eventually, something within the psyche of Si had to give way.
'Well, it was me bladder, actually,' reasons the Curly-Locked One. 'I just couldn't take no more. We 'ad to
fac'in get out of the sewers one way or another, an' the Brew was just rottin' me braincells. Plus I'd 'ad so much support
while bein' 'omeless that I knew a Falcon revival was long overdue.'
So, in using spare change to buy cups of tea instead of cans of Tennants, and in thanks to the donations people
who come to this very site had made, Si'n'Marty were able to get back on their feet.
'It weren't fac'in easy, I'm tellin' ya naaah,' says Si, emotionally. 'I 'ad to go an' reclaim me throne in
the Falcon empire, and we changed the name to FM Music, which I felt, ya know, really pushed the Falcon dream right inta the
21t Century. It's been a ball ever since.'
So what now for the Blond Bombshell?
'I just wanna be the guy that everybody comes to when they're lookin' for underground metal vinyl or rare
punk records. I just wanna sit back with me chardonnay an' chill out to the Chilli Peppers. Above all, I'm just 'appy baskin'
in my status as pillar of the community - pillar of the global community, that is. An' one more thing.'
Yes?
'We will still get 'im! Huuuuh! Huuuuh! Huuuuuh!'
So there you have it. Falcon Records is dead (and so is someone else.) Long Live FM Music!
