The Alternative Hero

SUGGESTED LISTENING: deus, Worst Case Scenario (Island, 1994)

I can’t reach you
anymore

You know how it is sometimes.
When you’re headlining a festival. Not Reading or Glastonbury, like any normal band would; they’d been bagsed already by a couple of Beatles cover bands, some hairy old grungers from way back and (I mean, really) the singer from The Sugarcubes. So you’re left with Aylesbury Doesn’t trip off the tongue, does it? Aylesbury “We’re headlining Aylesbury,” you mention to people. “Oh, yeah?” you half expect them to reply. “Who’s doing the other nights? Steeleye Span? Wishbone Ash? Landscape? Racey?”
But anyway. You wake to the sound of the phone ringing, climb across what you initially think is your guitar but actually turns out to be your girlfriend, and answer.
“Yeah?”
“Lance.”
“What?”
“Fancy coming for some breakfast?”
It’s Martin, your unpredictable guitarist.
“What time is it?”
“Eight.”
“F*ck’s sake. What time are we being picked up?”
“Ten.”
You ponder the breakfast option for a moment. It’s a good Dutch hotel: strong coffee, cheese, cold meats, fruit salad, maybe a bit of smoked fish, scrambled egg, crispy bacon and those crazy little frankfurters. All of which you normally enjoy … in bed.
“Nah, I’m gonna ring for it.”
“No, but I need to talk to you.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No.”
You glumly climb into some jeans. Predictably unpredictable. But last time Martin wanted to “talk” it was nothing more than him suddenly deciding he wanted to swap guitar parts in the bridge of “The Cool and the Crooks”—so it comes as some surprise a few minutes later to find yourself being told, while he calmly spoons yoghurt and banana into his gob, that he wishes to leave the band.
“When?”
“Soon as this leg of the tour’s over.”
Although you’ve often rehearsed receiving this particular bombshell from one of the others, and even considered dropping it yourself once or twice, hearing it for real is a totally different barrel of ale and your stomach is instantly bombarded by a blast of the most ferocious adrenaline.
“Who else have you told?”
“No one.”
“Really no one, or Bob no one?”
“Really no one. And I’d appreciate if you’d keep it that way, for now.”
“Uh … yeah, sure,” you reply breathlessly, gazing around the grand hotel dining hall. A few groups of businesspeople. Some weekending couples. A girl who’s been giving you the eye and obviously knows who you are. You picture strolling up to her, sitting down and announcing, “Hi. Do you know, you’ve just been watching Thieving Magpies split up?” As chat-up lines go, it’d be quite a winner.
Because ultimately, that’s what it will mean. Yes, Martin could be replaced for live work, but the prospect of producing new material without his calming influence over the frequently squabbling Dan and Craig is unattractive in the extreme.
“Shit,” is all you can say, followed by a very long pause. Martin painstakingly clears up every last drop of yoghurt from his bowl, then wipes his mouth thoroughly on the starched white napkin. He’s always loved his hotel breakfasts, has Martin. Especially in the early days. With no food in his fridge at home, arriving at a foreign hotel with breakfast included was almost better than getting paid.
“Aren’t you going to ask me the obvious?” he enquires, raising you from memories of rosier times.
“I can’t think of anything obvious.”
“I’ll give you a clue,” he frowns, leaning in. “It’s one word. It begins with W, ends in Y and has an H in the middle.”
“All right, less of the f*cking sarcasm, man. I’m in slight shock here.”
“No, but it’s just like you to not even care.”
“Hang on. Is this about me?”
“That’s part of it. I can’t reach you anymore, Lance. Neither can Dan and Craig.”
“What’s the other part?”
“I wanna move abroad. It’s … it’s getting too much. In England. I need a break. I don’t want to raise my kids in London.”
You’re doing your best to consider the now ex-guitarist’s words, but you can’t keep your eyes off the girl across the room. She’s a peach. She’s also poured a glass of champagne for herself, and appears to have placed an empty glass opposite her, suggestively. Nice breakfast. She winks … or was that just your imagination.
“Lance? Are you even f*cking listening to me?”
“Yes, yes. You’re moving abroad.”
“I can’t take another cycle of this shit. Album, tour, album, tour. It’s driving me insane.”
“You don’t mind the cash, though.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
The girl has now been joined by her man. What a little tease.
“I haven’t been happy in time,” Martin continues. “Not that you’ve noticed.”
“Well, I have been kinda busy …”
“That’s right, you have. In your bedroom.”
“No, Martin. I’ve been writing the f*cking songs that keep us afloat, in case it’s passed you by.”
“As we all have.”
“Yeah, but …” God damn it. You drum your fingers on the tablecloth, thrilled to be having this conversation again. You should have taken Bob’s advice years ago, insisted on a greater share of the song-writing credit; made the others realise how small their input actually is. But that would only mean more arguments.
“And I’ve been dealing with the Gloria thing,” you venture.
“The Gloria thing,” Martin leers, “is mainly your fault.”
“F*ck you, wanker!” you shout, suddenly jumping up. “You can f*cking go anytime you like; we’ll cope.”
You storm out of the dining room, everyone’s gaze following you. Then, just for the hell of it, you walk back to the girl’s table and smile at her boyfriend.
“Oh, sorry to disturb. Before you arrived just now? Your woman was fully flirting with me.”
You stride out, chuckling at the protestations and threats that ensue.
Back in your room, Katie has risen. She’s doing her makeup, a time she always looks her best, her long, dark hair cascading over her tanned shoulders.
“You okay?” she asks, and you consider telling her the news. Instead, you open the minibar, knock back two Jack Daniel’s miniatures in a row and artlessly f*ck her on the hotel-room floor.
It doesn’t matter how much money you’re being paid; travelling with the band is always a dreadful experience. It was fun when you were eighteen, but now that your late twenties are kicking in you’d prefer a method of getting about better suited to a man of your standing. Like: private plane. Or helicopter. Or even a nice, big, private car—anything that doesn’t entail smelling Dan Winston’s farts or pretending to laugh at the road crew’s interminable “humour.” It’s enough to drive you to drink—which, funnily enough, it has. Anyone wanting reasons for why any rock star flew off the rails need only spend a couple of days on the road with a band. Of course, it would be a lot better if BFM were providing adequate tour support—but that’s a conversation for another day.
You’re met at Heathrow by Petra, Bob’s relatively new assistant, who ushers you into the minibus. There’s the usual frisson between her and Katie, but that settles down once Petra produces some lunch for everyone, and for once she’s remembered Katie’s veggie stuff. Petra’s very excited, as it’s her first big festival headliner, bless her. You remember the morning back in May when Bob phoned to confirm you’d got the gig: Petra had just come out of the shower, all white towel and wet blonde bob, and she squealed so delightedly that you decided it was only fair to make her squeal again. Ah well, happy days.
Dan and Craig munch away; it’s been a cordial morning with them, as usual, but who knows what they’re really thinking after Martin’s earlier suggestions of growing dissent. Martin himself has been maddeningly overnice; by the time the bus reaches the A41 turnoff you feel like punching him. You instead decide to ask Petra if the sun is over the yardarm.
“Of course it is, Lance, honey,” she beams, producing a bottle of bubbly and some glasses from a cooler. “You want to be mother?”
“Nah, Martin can be mother,” you smile, handing him the bottle. “What do you say, Mart?”
He pops the cork and pours it out. You hold up your glass, look Martin straight in the eye and announce: “To the Magpies, summer ninety-five. And to the future.”
“The future,” everyone chants. Martin dawdles a second, wiping some mayonnaise off his trousers. When he takes his swig of bubbly, the minibus swerves slightly and he spills it all over his T-shirt. Ha. Screw him.
You’ve never been to Aylesbury before, but all British festivals look the same from behind. Same assortment of trucks, vans, tents, people with radios trying to look important, other people on mobile phones trying to look even more important, portable huts for a multitude of uses, security guards, bars, cordoned-off areas, even-more-cordoned-off areas, TV cameras, TV presenters running around with bowling-ball-sized microphones—and the laminates. The amount of different laminate passes always bewilders you. All you ever care about is that the one you have can get you in anywhere. So long as you’ve got that one, you don’t give a f*ck. If you approach an area—any area—and get stopped by a guard, then you’ve been given the wrong pass. Simple as that.
Petra doesn’t seem to have the passes today. That’s another thing that occasionally concerns you, but you try not to let it. Sometimes the passes come from a promoter, sometimes the festival organiser, sometimes from BFM (these are most frequently the wrong ones), sometimes your press agency, sometimes Bob. Sometimes from none of these people. Today is one of those days. The van parks up, the usual flurry of people start hovering nearby, and you wait.
“Best not get out yet,” advises Petra. “We haven’t got the passes.”
“And why is that?” asks Katie. Petra ignores her.
After a few minutes a man called Jonas, “from the local crew,” appears at the window and hands over some purple passes. They are all warm from the laminator. You are the headline band.
“Are you telling me you forgot to make our passes?” shrieks Dan, who’s become a right little prima donna ever since he shaved his hair off.
“Uh, no, there’s been a mix-up,” shrugs Jonas.
“Too right,” frowns Katie.
But you decide not to let this bother you. Besides, there’s half that bottle of champagne left, and you’re sure you spied another in the coolbox. Good old Petra. Bob always hires good girls.
Then comes the long walk from the van to your dressing room. You stick on your shades, grit your teeth and get on with it.
“Lance, hi! Delighted to have you here. I’m Rod Blunt from Aylesbury Festival; this is Siobhan, who’ll be looking after you today …”
“Lance, good to see you again. Vijay Shah from BBC Radio One. We’re looking forward to the interview later …”
“Lance, how ya doin’? Mari Wechter, MTV Europe. Hoping to have a few words with you later …”
“L, ah dohn’t noo if Malcolm’s told ya yet, but the Gretsch’s dead.”
“The Gretsch is dead?” you reply, feeling this is the only thing so far worth responding to. “How did that happen?”
“Er … ah dohn’t noo, musta happened in the truck somehoe.
We’re gonna have ta get one in for later … unless ya just wanna stick with the Gibson …”
“Stan, why the f*ck would I want to stick with the Gibson?”
“Ah, ooh-kay, ah’ll sort it out.”
“Hi, Lance, babe. Here’s the list for the press conference. We’re having it in the bar. Petra knows the setup.”
“Oh, shit, yeah,” you nod. “The press conference.”
This is Bob’s idea. Owing to the general feeling of malaise regarding interviews, and that BFM have firmly gone to sleep on the band despite platinum discs presently winging their way to Mortimer Street, a press conference backstage would kill a few birds with one stone. Plus, it’s a firm proprietary gesture at this time of musical guard changing: in case there’s any lingering doubt, we are the Thieving f*cking Magpies, this is our festival, and if you’re very lucky we’ll answer some of your questions.
“Make sure there’s some booze there, yeah?” you tell her. “Petra’s got some bubbly shit.”
“No problem,” replies Heidi. Heidi from the press agency. Or is she Heidi from BFM? She used to work for one, now she’s with the other. You can’t remember which way round it is. Not that it matters.
You continue walking. Every so often Siobhan from the festival whirls around, flashes a smile and says, “Almost there.” Black hair, decent figure, nice tattoo. But no. Gradually the flocks of people are thinning. Some bloke you vaguely recognise with a mod haircut and red tracksuit top is chatting to a security guard next to one of the portable huts. He spies you approaching, then flounces over towards you, proffering a cold can of beer.
“Lance! Good to see ya, man. Have a drink on me. Coming to see us later?”
“Coming to see you? Oh—yeah, of course! Which stage?”
“Main,” he smiles. “Six o’clock.”
“Got it.”
Then as he turns to go, he says something else you don’t quite catch.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Nothing,” the guy says, as he winks and ambles off.
You walk past the security guard (“Good afternoon, Mr. Webster,” he says, in what seems an overly formal manner) and realise you’re finally in a zone only you can get to.
Oh, and the rest of the band.
And now you’re inside the customary portable hut, which is hotter than Hades. HEADLINER is written on the door.
“Headliner,” you comment, in the general direction of Siobhan. “Couldn’t they remember our name?”
“Um … well,” she beams, “we use the same room for all three headliners!”
“Yes, I imagine you do.”
She laughs nervously. “Oh, well! Here’s the dressing room. Let’s open one of these windows, shall we? You’ve got all your refreshments here, shower in there, loo …”
Craig and Dan have caught up now. Craig ties his hair into a knot and unpacks his bag, making his usual little shrine of deodorant, spare sweatbands, cigarettes, a book (currently something by Terry Pratchett) and drumsticks. He takes an apple from the fruit bowl and chomps into it. Dan immediately begins to undress for a shower, another routine action from when he had usually filthy long hair which needed constant freshening up; he now seems to be experiencing a case of amputee’s hairdo. Martin is chatting to someone outside; Petra is bustling around, drawing Siobhan’s attention to some items missing from the rider; and you … well, you sit down and crack open the beer you’ve just been given.
Martin appears and sighs.
“Malcolm wants us to go check the rigs.”
You look up, perplexed.
“He wants us to check the rigs? Isn’t that what we’ve got Stan and Doug for?”
“He says something odd’s going on. They don’t want to change anything unless we see it first. Remember what happened in Madrid.”
“Now?”
“Good a time as any,” Martin shrugs.
So you leave to accompany your outgoing right-hand man on this most menial of tasks. Malcolm, your reliable but overcautious crew manager, leads the way: back past the security guard (who mutters something inaudible as you pass), then a crazy shortcut under guy ropes, behind catering vans, through a car park where the sun beats down mercilessly on the multicoloured metal rooftops. You can hear the muffled roar of some band hammering out a song you recognise (“I guess I’m doing fine, guess I’m doing fine … Do y’ think I miss you? Do y’ think I care?”) as you finally loop round to the massive grey globule that is the main stage, halting by a sealed-off area where all the Magpies’ equipment is held. A pale, spotty security chap of about fourteen with heavily gelled hair guards the entrance. Malcolm disappears inside, you try to follow.
“Uh … can I see a pass, please?” the guard mutters.
“A pass?” you repeat, incredulous. “It’s my f*cking equipment in here. That’s my pass, pal.”
“I still need to see a pass.”
Martin whips his own from his pocket and holds it out for inspection.
“Sorry, these aren’t authorised for this area,” responds the guard.
“Bullshit,” you state flatly, and push past. Martin stays to argue.
Inside the tent a few roadies are standing around, smoking, looking worried.
“Hi, Doug, what’s all this shit?”
Doug is a dreadlocked, tattooed six-foot-sixer of the sort they don’t make anymore; been with you since Shoot the Fish.
“Something f*ckin’ odd’s happening, L. I changed all Mart’s valves before the show yesterday, every single one. Now they’re all broken.”
“Weird,” you agree. “And mine?”
“All the speakers have been unscrewed and ripped on the Twin and the Marshall.”
“Ripped?”
“Yup. In the last two hours.”
“In the last two hours?”
“Yeah. I tested it all when we got here, and now they’re all f*cked.”
You wander up and down, inspecting a few of the guitars, swigging from your beer can occasionally.
“Is Jerry about?”
“Nah, he’s having lunch. But don’t worry, the drums are all fine.”
You lower your voice.
“What’s the security bloke like?”
“Just a kid. Seems okay, though.”
Martin comes storming in.
“We’ve been given the wrong passes. This guy’s never seen one of these before.”
The rat you’ve been smelling starts to turn putrid.
“F*ck it,” you decide. “Have any of you guys got a mobile phone?”
“Malcolm has,” Doug replies.
“Malc!” you shout. He emerges from behind the keyboard rack, sipping a Coke. “Call Petra. Call Bob. I want a meeting in the dressing room in five minutes with that cock from the festival and someone in charge of security. From now on”—you point at the gear, then at the assembled crew—“I want one of you guys in here at all times. Got that?”
They nod, and you depart. As you pass the security guard you’re sure you hear him say something—sounds like “saul oh”—but as you’ve no idea what that means, you park it to one side and rush back to the dressing room.
Bob Grant wipes the sweat off his bald head with a hankie, straightens his frankly appalling Hawaiian shirt and knocks on the hut’s door frame as if planning some impromptu DIY. The rest of the band are stretched out in a little patch of sun on the grass, but you’re standing, shifting your weight from one leg to the other, limbering up for the fight to come. In your hand is the offending laminate, which you’ve bent out of all proportion like an expired credit card. Shortly, Petra appears with Rod Blunt (green polo shirt, empire-builder shorts, looks more like a scoutmaster than a festival organiser) and a thickset thirty-something who introduces himself as Steve, head of security. Bob begins to diplomatically explain the problems you’ve so far encountered, but after a minute or two you get bored, knock back the rest of your lager and leap in.
“Nah, Bob, sorry to interrupt, but this is far more f*cking straightforward. We are the headline f*cking band, the reason this f*cking festival exists, and someone, I don’t know who, I don’t really care who, is f*cking with us. I want it nipped in the f*cking bud right now, or you get no show from us. You guys—you talk amongst your-f*cking-selves and work out what’s going on, whether it’s your security guys having a laugh, or someone slipping them a tenner to f*ck with our gear, or someone slipping them a line of f*cking charlie to turn a blind eye. Whatever it is, it stops now or we don’t f*cking play. I want that kid on our equipment tent moved right to the other side of the site. I want him”—you point at the chap guarding your dressing room—“moved as well. And I want a laminate that’s so f*cking triple, quadruple A that it gives me the right to walk in on Louise Wener while she’s having a shit. You got that?”
It seems they have. They apologise nervously and depart.
“So, what exactly did you need me for?” grumbles Bob, hurrying off.
The backstage bar—a tent normally crawling with industry knobs and liggers in various states of inebriation—is stuffed to the gills with music journalists, such that you can smell them from twenty yards away. They loll on the white plastic garden furniture and nag at their bottled beer while The Social Trap cannons out of the speakers, doing battle with what sounds like Judas Priest on the main stage (but you’re sure that can’t be right). Petra skips over as you approach, finally bearing your new laminates. Someone, either by mistake or for a crack, has obeyed your command precisely and printed four As on it, which unexpectedly makes you chuckle.
“As long as it works, eh, Spalding?” you smile at your drummer, who for some mysterious reason has brought along his Pratchett novel. “Worried you’ll get bored?”
“Yeah, or in case I need the loo halfway through,” he replies. Good old Craig. The only band member who never pisses you off.
There’s a muted round of applause as you enter and take your seat: in the middle, as usual, flanked by Craig and Martin to your left, Dan and Heidi to your right. So she is with the press agency. Glad you’ve cleared that one up.
“Okay, one at a time. Let’s have it.”
It’s pretty much autopilot from here on in. You like press conferences. There’s not the inconvenience and pressure of having to talk to just one person, and you can play off all the daft stuff hacks say in public. It’s like playing a gig with none of the music and just the between-song banter, which has always been your favourite part. Petra passes by occasionally, refilling your champagne glass; none of the other guys say an awful lot, but then they never do. Overall, you prefer it that way. Stops them from saying anything stupid, like that time in Zurich when Dan described Switzerland as “basically part of Germany.”
In the main, the session is a public hearing of the battle currently raging between the older writers (Kenny Mann, Vincent Bates) and the newer ones (Blair Cooper, Toby Johnson, plus that knob from Craze) over who can out-hip and out-reference the other. You’re a little disturbed to find you usually agree with the older ones, even Mann, whom you and Gloria always detested. You’ve never laughed so hard as when she socked him in the face that time. “Hell hath no fury …,” etc.
But you can’t help feeling irritated when some little shit from Select smugly notes “the unexpected success of The Social Trap.” Time for a spot of your sleeping-alligator routine.
“I’m sorry … ‘unexpected’?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t understand. Why was it unexpected?”
“Well …”
“Did you read that somewhere? Was it in Music Week?”
“Well, you’ve been away for a while, and—”
“A year.”
“But, I mean, since your last studio release—”
“Which sold four million copies, yes.”
“And the musical map has—”
“Ooh, here we go, it’s a geography lesson! The musical map. Is that a map that whistles a Black Sabbath song when you stick a pin in Birmingham?”
“No, but—”
“It’s never as cut and dried as that, my friend.”
“Sure, but what’s your view on the whole Britpop movement?”
“Britpop?”
“Yes.”
“What the f*ck is Britpop?”
“Um …”
“Brit. Pop. Brit … ish. Ah! And Pop … ular music. I get it! Well, we’re Britpop! The Beatles were Britpop. Manfred Mann were Britpop. The Real Thing, Hot Chocolate, Thompson Twins, The Lotus Eaters, The Associates, The Goombay f*cking Dance Band.”
“Actually, they were German,” puts in Martin, above the rising murmurs.
“Well done,” you smile, clinking Martin’s champagne glass with yours and knocking it back. “Spotted the odd one out. Martin Fox, ladies and gents! Petra, can I have a refill?”
Amazingly, the journo is persisting.
“Okay, call it the current explosion of new music. What do you think of it?”
There’s a bit of unease in the air and you realise a serious answer might be required.
“Oh, it’s all right. I mean, I can sort of see why you lot are getting your knickers in a twist over it, that’s pretty predictable. But in reality, it’s just a decent crop of new bands, and they’re all doing fairly decently. It happens. I’m not convinced it’s earth-shattering. I haven’t heard anything that, like, radically influences me or sends me scratching my head back to the drawing board. But it’s pretty healthy, I s’pose. A f*ck sight better than the crap around when we first came out. I quite like Sleeper, she writes good lyrics. Supergrass are cool. Will that do? Can I start talking about The Goombay Dance Band again now?”
Heidi picks a serious-looking chap at the back.
“Kai Johansson, Svenska Dagbladet, Stockholm. I’d like to ask who you would like to be number one from Blur and Oasis.”
Feeling the need for some variety you look at your band.
“Guys?”
“Uh … dunno,” mutters Martin.
“Blur,” answers Craig, firmly.
“Anyone but Oasis,” offers Dan.
“And you, Lance?” asks the writer.
“Neither. I think both songs are shit.”
“But which band do you prefer?”
“Slade.”
Then you notice that tool from Craze has his hand in the air. You’re bored. Time for one more scrap, after which it really would be nice to see some music.
“Heidi, pick him,” you instruct.
“Who?”
“The guy over there from Craze,” you say over the microphone in a stupidly loud voice, pointing at him, “who’s had his hand up for about forty minutes.”
“Okay, you,” she squeaks. Craze bloke smiles cordially, so you smile back even wider.
“Tony Gloster, Craze.”
“Tony! Welcome! How nice that you made it along. How … difficult it must have been to drag yourself away from Noel Gallagher’s arsehole.”
You’re rewarded with a gratifyingly loud blend of laughter and outrage.
“There’s no need for that,” frowns Gloster.
“Oh, yes? Just like there’s no need for some of those intelligent, thought-provoking things you wrote in your album review. What was it … ‘like a bitter, alcoholic old uncle arriving for Christmas—they’re back’?”
“Er … it’s called a bad review. Live with it.”
“Well, you’re right, it most certainly was a bad review. And there was another thing that tickled me: ‘Quite why Webster and others believe they are required in 1995 is baffling.’ You want me to explain it to you?”
“If you want.”
“Was that what you put your hand up to ask?”
“Well, as you haven’t given me a chance to even speak yet—”
“Aw … Tony. Poor Tony! Sorry, please … ask me what you wanted to ask me.”
“It’ll be a letdown now.”
“Just ask, and ye shall be answered.”
“I was just wondering whether you saw yourself as part of, or an alternative to, the current explosion?”
“Oh, booooring,” you moan, having expected something far more fruity. “Why would anyone want to know that?”
“I think it’s important. For you, and for your fans.”
“Well, I must tell you that I really don’t understand why we have to be either, but I would also imagine that none of our fans give the slightest shit as long as we keep making good records. I mean, who cares? Really?”
“Were you ever concerned that the Magpies would be superfluous to the whole thing?”
“Sorry, Tony, I didn’t go to university. I don’t understand words with more than two syllables.”
“Did you worry that you’d be rendered unnecessary?”
“Hmmm …” you think, glancing over at Heidi, “that one’s got five syllables. Oh, I dunno. You tell me. Why would we be?”
“Well, you’re part of the old guard.”
“The old guard. The dear old guard.”
“Pretty much everyone else has been swept away.”
“Swept away! Yes, sweep us away, under the carpet, before Alan McGee spots us!” you cry, swigging a bit more champers. “Whoever said press conferences weren’t fun? Sorry, Tony, I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you have. All your ilk have been eclipsed. The Cure. The Wonder Stuff. The Mission. James. Pop Will Eat Itself. Carter. Jesus Jones.”
“Ha! And you’ve forgotten Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, Eat and Kingmaker, and why don’t you throw in Gaye Bikers on Acid and Dumpy’s Rusty Nuts while you’re at it? Are you getting all this off the back of an old Camden Palace flyer, or what? You see … you’re looking for answers that don’t exist, Mr. Gloster. You’re reading me names of bands who burned out long before this Britpop thing reared its trendy little head. But we, the Thieving f*cking Magpies—headliners of this festival, in case anyone’s forgotten—we have always been capable of moving on, and we’re not stopping now just ’cos there’s suddenly a cool new scene for all you cool new people to shake your record bags to. I mean, why the f*ck shouldn’t people continue listening to us? Why is it such a f*cking surprise? It’s not as if we’re doing something completely contrary to what’s happening now. We use guitars. We’re British. We write real pop songs about real life. And we still rock harder than f*cking anyone. A lot of the new bands rock about as hard as Simply Red.”
You grin at your own gag and glance at the rest of the band. They look as if they’re waiting to be called at the dentist’s. For God’s sake, why don’t they ever help out in these situations? You’ll have a right go at them afterwards.
But Gloster, unbelievably still wants to talk.
“But you represent a bygone era.”
“No, we don’t, my little friend. That’s just what you’ve decided, because the goths and grebos used to dig us, and ’cos we’re from Reading as opposed to Stockport or wherever. It’s total and utter bullshit. I bet you don’t ask Shaun Ryder the same question. If you do, he’ll probably sit on you, and then you’ll be sorry.”
“Does a backlash scare you?”
“Hey-hey, it’s the backlash!” you whoop, getting up and doing a little jig. “Welcome back to the backlash, ladies and germs. No, I don’t f*cking think so. We’ve already had four of the f*ckers. One after each album. We’d survived our first one probably before you finished your GCSEs.”
You turn and nudge Martin in the ribs, which prompts a ferocious glare.
“Wha’sa matter with you?” you hiss at him. “Why don’t you cunts f*cking cheer up?”
“What about from the public?” persists Gloster.
“Oh, Tony … Tony, Tony, Tony, stop being so bloody tiresome. I want to go and watch dEUS. Please can I go and watch dEUS? Mum?” you shout over to Heidi. “Can we stop now?”
She cocks her head to suggest you should answer the last question.
“Oh, all right. No, we won’t be having a backlash from the public, Mr. Gloster, thank you very much. We’ve got a platinum record, and you can all just f*ck off.”
You stand up, and walk straight back to the dressing room without a word. Well, it’s an appropriate end to an appropriately dull conference, isn’t it? These thing are never any fun anymore.
˙  ˙  ˙

Oh, and the band come storming in a few minutes later to have a go at you. Well, that was inevitable. But you give as good as you get, telling them they’re all zombies, and that it’s by behaving precisely as you just did that the Magpies retain their edge, their abrasive style, their reputation for biting intelligence and lyrical wit. Surprisingly, the most sensible comeback to this comes from Craig.
“But you didn’t sound intelligent just then, L. You sounded disturbed.”
You open another beer and consider this charge. How you’d love to tell him that, in fact, you are a bit disturbed. Actually, that you’re completely lost; that you feel you’ve lost a limb since Gloria vanished, and that of course you blame yourself for everything that happened, for taking such colossal offence all those years ago when she decided, purely on the strength of one of her cosmic experiences, that she wasn’t destined to be with a rock star after all, and that you then turned into such a promiscuous fool, making sure every girl you f*cked was as drop-dead gorgeous as possible just to punish her, gradually grinding her down to the point where she started to destroy herself, and then … well. You’d prefer not to think about that. But you can’t tell the band any of this. Any kink in your armour and you’ll be ripped apart. You’d also love to inform Dan and Craig that your day didn’t have exactly the most wonderful start with Martin’s little announcement; but you gave him your word, and Lance’s word is Lance’s word. That’s one part of your reputation that you never want sullied.
The argument winds down and you suggest to Craig that, at last, some music might be a good idea, so—taking a couple of cans for the journey—you stride back out into the sunshine.
˙  ˙  ˙

At this point, your day considerably improves. You’re heading in the vague direction of the second stage (the Loaded stage, as Craig corrects you) to catch a bit of dEUS, but, as usual with festivals, there are all sorts of diversions on the way. You’re wearing your shades and (a nice effect, you thought) a pith helmet, but the number of fans who still recognise you is astonishing. Or maybe they recognise Craig, then put two and two together. You’re not prone to self-doubt, or even band-doubt, especially with the album flying out the shops as it has been, but today’s press conference succeeded in making you a little nervy, so the colourful collection of long-haired boys and girls who approach as you traipse along is hugely gratifying.
“Hi, Lance, wicked to have you back, geezer.”
“Lance, f*cking can’t wait for later, man.”
“Oh my God, it’s you! Can you sign this?”
“Theeeeevers! Spirit of eighty-nine, mate.”
“Or eighty-eight?” you laugh.
“Craig!” says another. “F*ck, you’re my fave drummer of all time! Well, after Dave Grohl.”
“It’s always after Dave Grohl, innit,” Craig laments.
“That’s okay,” you counter, cracking open another beer. “With me it’s usually after Mike Patton, and how do you think that feels.”
Some dudes are kicking a football about.
“Lance! On the ’ead, mate!”
You join in for a few minutes, delighted to be in the real world. An insane-looking collection of misfits are knocking out something familiar on the main stage (“Baby we don’t love ya, baby we don’t love ya, baby, yeah!”), perfect for a sunny day in the country. Then it’s all high fives and “see you tonight”s and you’re off again, towards the red big top on the far side of the arena.
“Gonna be good tonight, then,” volunteers Craig.
“Of course it is, Mr. Spalding,” you smile. “Course it is.”
The fun continues as you arrive at the Loaded stage, where dEUS are midway through administering a shambolically energetic set to the couple of thousand punters who pack the tent. An ecstatic bloke in a Weezer T-shirt gives you and Craig a hug, then runs off to buy you a couple of pints. Some very young girls demand you sign their brand-new Aylesbury ’95 long-sleeved tops (“It’ll ruin a nice top, though,” you merrily protest). You push on forwards, shaking hands with various people every few minutes, enjoying the band, gleefully allowing yourself to be pushed and pulled as everyone bounces up and down to the chorus (“She knows where she rolls when she goes for the doorknob”) and supping your pint of snakebite. Funny he got you snakebite. It must be years since you had it. He probably thinks that’s all you drink. It’s strong stuff.
“Better take it easy, I s’pose,” Craig comments. “Long time ’til we play.”
“Shit,” you grin. “Forgot we had to actually play later. Maybe you could get Stan to do it for me.”
“Okay,” he agrees. “I’m sure Jerry’ll do a fine job on the drums too.”
You watch a few more songs then wander out again. Funny old thing, the grand old British music festival: what a bizarre rock on which your career has been built. But it’s been good to you. Your career, from such strange beginnings: when an odd but pretty girl called Rosamund gave you that first compilation tape in 1983—Bauhaus, Gene Loves Jezebel, The Cure and The Sisters of Mercy on the first side; The Smiths, Orange Juice, The Pastels and The Lotus Eaters on side two—and you realised, with her help, that you could do it too. You dreamed together; you got drunk together; you even changed your names together. How you loved her. Gloria, that crazy, wonderful, messed-up girl, who remained so bizarrely adamant that she wasn’t destined to be yours, but who guided you every step of the way. And how the indie world welcomed you with open arms back then, and how (you believe) you’ve done your bit in return.
And you realise what a prick Martin is for suddenly rejecting it all. Who knows what will happen now. You’ve still got tonight, of course. But as you wander across the dusty field—past the stalls, the coloured hats, the endless piles of army-surplus stuff, the burger vans, the herbal pills that never work, the beer tents, the merch stands (the latest Magpies top looks particularly good, you notice, stretched out at the top of the display board), the noodle-eating, pint-supping, sunbathing masses and the ever-changing sonic palette of jagged chords and thumping beats—you realise that in some strange way it feels like you’re saying goodbye. You pause, undisturbed for a second, blinking at the gradually setting sun, trying to take it all in, just in case you never see it again. If this really was it—tonight—you figure it’d be okay. No one could say you hadn’t had a good run. You’ve plenty of fine memories, and enough pounds left in the bank. Some mistakes too, many regrets and a lot of pain, which you know you’ll have to deal with over time. But on balance, this is a world which has made you happy.
“You all right, L?” asks Craig.
“Yeah, man,” you smile, watching some fool doing a bungee jump in the distance. “Nice festival. Glad we picked it, really.”
Slowly the sound from the looming main stage overtakes everything else as you make your way back, and you catch a glimpse of the band. You’re not sure who they are—neither is Craig—but they seem to be a graduate of the more recent, retro school of thought, competent but not madly impressive, a load of old Rolling Stone chords in search of a decent song. Could it be Shed Seven? No, they’re better than this. As are The Bluetones. But it’s along those lines. With your slightly superior headliner’s cap on, you muse aloud to Craig that it’ll “all be over in six months”—then quietly take it back. Gloria used to gravely warn you about the karmic consequences of slagging bands while watching them. The woman usually had a point, as the next few minutes prove.
Firstly you notice that everyone in this particular corner of the festival has short hair. Then you realise all the clothes are different—tighter-fitting, smarter than usually seen at festivals; velvet suits, shirts, ties. Either that, or more on the sporty side, Adidas T-shirts, vintage trainers. It might be your imagination, but people also seem to be drinking more. Which isn’t a completely bad thing; after all, you’ve been at it all day. That reminds you, there’s another can of beer in Craig’s bag, so you steady yourself by cracking it open. Another change is that no one’s recognised you for a while. Again, not a disaster in itself, but substantially different to elsewhere.
“This is called ‘Haley’s Blues,’” announces the vocalist. “This is for all you lot to shake about to. It’s our last song. Have a blindin’ evening, enjoy Gene and The Boos, and remember to go somewhere else for the headliner, eh?”
A whoop of laughter slaps you in the face and you feel like you’re watching your own funeral.
“What a cunt,” observes Craig, but you’re too shocked to reply. “Come on, let’s get outta here. I’m gonna smack him if I see him backstage.”
Backstage. You look at your watch, and then it hits you.
“Shit, hang on! It’s six thirty.”
“Yeah?”
“This is that band! That guy … the guy who was talking to the security bloke on our dressing room when we arrived!”
“Which means?”
You squint at the stage. There he is, in his red tracksuit, laying into his Hammond organ.
“It’s him. These are the people who are trying to f*ck us, Craig. I bet that …”
You look around the audience, trying to spot someone you recognise. You’re standing handily near the entrance to the VIP enclosure, so you bet there’s … yes, there he is: Tony Gloster, wigging away in his corduroys and his bloody Graham Coxon spectacles … and there’s that idiot Blair Cooper, a little further forward, unmistakable with shades on his head and a Creation record bag.
“F*cking arseholes,” you pronounce, grabbing Craig’s arm and hurrying towards the backstage entrance.
“Lance, I really don’t think you should have anything more to drink for a while.”
“Whatever.”
A group of chaps are just leaving the enclosure as you approach. One of them sniggers as he sees you.
“What’s so f*cking funny, dickhead,” you snarl as you pass him.
“It’s all over,” the guy replies clearly.
Followed by more laughter.
You remain still and think for half a second; then you’re off again, storming past the guard by the VIP entrance, holding your pass right in his face.
“Don’t even think about saying I’ve got the wrong one.”
He doesn’t. What he does say, almost out of earshot as you flounce off, is the same phrase again: “It’s all over.”
“What did you f*cking say?” you scream, turning on him.
“Nothing,” he shrugs innocently.
“Wanker!”
You dash away again. Once inside the enclosure, Craig catches up with you.
“Lance, for the second time today, you are behaving like an utter cock.”
“No, Craig! Listen! Call me hysterical, man, but it’s a f*cking conspiracy.”
“Erm … hysterical,” he obliges.
“No, no, think about it! Haven’t you heard what they’ve been saying to me?”
“No, all I’ve been hearing is you mouthing off to people.”
“They’re saying ‘It’s all over,’ didn’t you hear them? The prick in the red tracksuit said it, then the security guy by our hut said it, and that little cock guarding our gear before, he said it. Hasn’t anyone said it to you?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Oh, f*ck it …”
You glare around at the assembled drinkers and the little queue of girls by the toilet, most of whom are gaping in your direction. It’s not something they’re used to, the lead singer of the headline band arguing with his drummer in the middle of the backstage area. “Listen, Craig, whatever you think, do me a favour, will you? Please go over to the equipment tent and check everything’s okay. One of our guys should be in there with the gear. If he’s not, come straight back to the dressing room and tell me. Will you please just f*cking do that for us?”
“Okay! Okay,” Craig says, holding his hands up in surrender and backing off.
You’re getting all hot and hassled now, so you whip off your pith helmet. Aware that appearances need to be kept up, you tidy your hair, take a deep breath and walk at a more casual pace back towards the dressing room. Unfortunately, this is the wrong thing to do. Your reduced speed means you can clearly hear, at least five times as you cross the makeshift beer garden, different people saying the words “It’s all over.” Not wanting to look like a total, frantic fool, you ignore every single one of them. Then, just as you’ve reached the other side, a small female insect pounces.
“Lance, hi! Mari Wechter, MTV Europe.” Here she is, with her beach-ball-sized microphone and her cameraman lurking behind. “Would now be a good time to have a few words? I’m sure viewers all over the continent would love to hear—”
“Er … not such a good time right now, no.”
“Oh, just for a minute. We’re very excited to see you and your band back on the festival circuit. Couldn’t you just—”
“Sorry, Mari, can we make it slightly later, I need to—”
“It’ll only take thirty seconds of your time. We can’t wait to see the—”
“Not! Now!”
It takes every molecule of willpower you possess to not grab her by the shoulders and shake all the slick, televisual enthusiasm out of her. She gets the message, coughs with surprise and turns back to the cameraman.
“Maybe it is all over,” she mutters.
Your patience exhausted, you sprint the rest of the way back to the dressing room, where thankfully a different security guard awaits. This is a big guy, reassuringly older, perhaps in his mid-forties, with short blond hair and a slight beer belly.
“Hello, Lance,” he says, warmly holding out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m going to be doing your dressing room security for the rest of the day.”
“Ah. And your name is … ?”
“John,” he replies. “Great to be working here. I’ve been a big fan of yours since Lovely Youth.”
“Oh … right! Well, nice one, John.” West Berkshire accent, you note, just like your mum and dad. You gesture towards the hut. “Anyone home?”
“Yes, I think your young lady is, as a matter of fact.”
You find yourself a little caught out by his friendliness. However, your initial character appraisal says there’s something sincere about him; perhaps not the most interesting man in the world, maybe a slight jobsworth, but he seems trustworthy, which must go a long way in the security business.
“Listen … John,” you confide, leaning in slightly, “do me a favour, will you? If … if anyone tries to give you anything, like a bribe or anything like that … will you let me know?”
“A bribe?” he frowns.
“It’s just that … there’s been some weird stuff happening today. I don’t know if you’ve seen anything … have you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, anyway … be sure to tell me if anything untoward occurs.”
“I’ll do that, Lance.”
“Thanks,” you smile, patting him on the shoulder. “Oh, and whatever they offer you, I’ll double it,” you chuckle.
He looks confused for a second, then laughs awkwardly as you hop up the steps of the hut.
Katie is inside, managing to smoke, nurse a glass of wine, talk on her phone and apply some after-sun lotion to her sunburnt shoulders all at the same time.
“Hang on, he’s here,” she mutters. “I’ll call you back … Baby! Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, about,” you sigh, flopping down on the sofa next to her.
“I heard,” she begins, kissing you on the forehead, “that someone lost their rag at the press conference.”
“Oh, yeah? You heard wrong.”
“Well, that’s what Dan told me,” Katie adds. “He said you told all the journos to f*ck off and then stormed out.”
“Oh, Christ!” you exclaim, standing up again and opening the fridge. “Where the f*ck is everyone’s sense of humour? I was joking the whole way through that conference, just like I’ve always done, but everyone’s so stuffed up their own tight arses at the moment. I don’t understand it!”
“God, just take it easy, babe, will you?”
“I’ve been trying to take it easy all f*cking day,” you reply, banging your fist on the toilet door, “but there’s some sort of f*cking vendetta going on!”
“Right, I’m off,” Katie announces, gathering up her things. “You’re stressing me out.”
“That’s the f*cking thing about dressing rooms,” you declare, glugging your drink. “People love to come back and hang out, be in with the f*cking so-called in-crowd, admitted to the inner sanctum or whatever … but then, they don’t like it as soon as there’s a little bit of tension. Don’t they ever remember it’s actually a workspace? This is where we bloody prepare for a performance! Why doesn’t anyone ever f*cking remember that?”
“All right, that’s enough,” she instructs. “I’m not just ‘people,’ if you don’t mind—I’m your girlfriend. Tell me what’s wrong. There is something, isn’t there?”
“Yes,” you nod.
So you tell her. You tell her everything: how someone appears to be laughing at you and the band, vandalising the gear, giving out fake passes, slagging you off onstage, telling everyone to mutter “It’s all over” as you walk by. Katie listens sympathetically, but it’s this last bit she can’t believe.
“How would I be imagining that?” you scream at her.
“Will you stop f*cking shouting at me!”
You stop.
“And give that a rest for a while,” she instructs, grabbing your beer away.
“Okay,” you begin, more quietly. “Do me a favour. Come with me. Let’s go and have a little walk around. Listen out, and I guarantee someone will say it.”
Realising you’re in no mood to back down, Katie agrees.
You leave the dressing room, wink at John the guard, and wander off arm in arm into the main enclosure, past the bar, across the sea of white plastic garden chairs, where the drinkers catch the last of the evening sun, over to the side of the main stage (you spend a couple of minutes watching Gene, who you must admit are pretty good) then back to the enclosure, through the public arena and back into the VIP bit … and of course, no one says a damn thing. Quite the contrary. People are nice to you. They smile. The guards are all polite. The journos nod. Even f*cking Tony Gloster has the gall to come up and say, “All’s fair in love and indie pop, eh?”—at which you grudgingly shake his hand. And with every new person you pass, you feel Katie’s mood plummeting further down. When she’s finally had enough of walking, just as you’re passing the ladies’ loos for the third time, she turns to you and gives you one of her serious looks.
“Lance, honey, I hate to say it, but you’ve got some sort of problem.”
“No …”
“Baby, listen to me, you have—”
“No! Katie, I swear.”
“Sweetness, all you need to do is go and have a lie down, chill out. I’ll find you a private space. I think all this is getting too much for you …”
“Lance!” squeaks a female voice.
You both whirl around. It’s Petra.
“Lance,” she chirps, “Craig says to tell you all the gear’s okay, and Stan’s in there guarding it.”
“Ah! Thank God,” you gasp, at this most rare piece of good news. You’re so relieved, in fact, you can’t help giving Petra a little hug.
“Oh, you arsehole!” screams Katie, driving her fists between the two of you. “You complete shit! I was going out of my way to be nice to you, and you can’t even respect me enough to keep your f*cking hands off her in front of me!”
“But, Katie …”
“No, you just f*ck off,” she cries, holding up an angry warning finger. “You can drown in your little f*cking paranoid and miserable world, and take her with you. I damn well hope you’re happy.”
And with that, she is off.
Petra’s bottom lip trembles.
“Sorry, Lance,” she blurts, and dashes off.
Exhausted, you turn around to the beer garden, where once again an amused audience watches. Setting your controls for the heart of the dressing room, and specifically the alcohol rider, you decide the only possible solution to your woes is to immediately get as drunk as possible.
You’ve been drunk for gigs before. Actually, you’ve been paralytic before; you’ve passed out, people have had to slap you and splash cold water over your face in order to bring a shred of consciousness back to your sozzled body. And you’ve always managed to perform, and perform well: singing almost note perfect, your guitar playing rhythmic and strong. Only experts would notice the difference. Strange, really, but everyone has their good points. You’re sure that if John McEnroe downed five pints of lager and a bottle of wine, he’d still be fairly good at tennis.
The ingredient that dramatically alters, however, is how you treat the audience. Stone-cold sober, which only happens very occasionally: you’re a bit moody and monosyllabic, only really warming up by the end. A little tipsy: you start getting cheeky and the banter flows. But moderately drunk, you believe, is when you’re at your best. Nicely antagonistic, a couple of insults fly, sometimes something controversial like throwing out a lairy audience member, arguing with a bouncer, maybe shouting at a roadie. Keeps everyone on their toes. When you smile at the end of the show and advise everyone to get home safely, that’s the payoff; it’s so much more effective than if you’d been pleasant all evening. Drunker than that: you start quarrelling with the band and ignoring the crowd, although you still hurl abuse at the little f*ckers when they shout out song requests. Again, it keeps people in a nice state of alertness, but perhaps it shouldn’t happen more than once per tour. Recently, you have to admit, it’s been happening a lot. Thirty-two shows since The Social Trap was wheeled out in May: for perhaps half of those you’ve been smashed. It’s been a tough year.
The upshot of this drinking record is that no one is particularly concerned at the state you’re getting yourself into tonight at Aylesbury Craig makes a few comments, mostly because he saw the frenzy you were in earlier, but Martin’s been totally ignoring you since the press conference and Dan, judging by the near-empty bottle of rum next to him, isn’t an awful long way behind you. Bob comes in to do his usual schoolteacherly routine at around eight thirty (“Now, gents, remember what we’re all here for—keep a little bit back for the celebration afterwards”) and Petra looks perpetually worried, but that’s probably because she’s expecting an ice pick in her back from Katie at any moment.
Nine o’clock approaches, and Heidi cheerfully arrives to escort you to the backstage bar for the Radio One interview. It’s at this point that your powers of speech vanish, and all you can do is shake your head.
“Come on, Lance. Perhaps a little of that old sparkle, to make up for earlier?”
“Sparkle,” laughs Martin. “You’ll get more sparkle out of a dead badger right now.”
“Well, someone’s got to do it,” Heidi insists. “Dan? Martin?”
“I ain’t going anywhere,” growls Dan.
Martin sighs and goes into his standard martyr routine.
“Oh, all right, I guess I’ll have to do it.”
“Hero,” comments Heidi, giving him a peck on the cheek.
“As long as Craig comes.”
“Whassat?” mumbles Craig, who’s been deeply occupied with his Pratchett novel.
“Come on, Spalding,” says Heidi, cheekily kicking at one of his trainers. “Remember, you’re in a rock band? Yeah? About to play to, ooh … fifty thousand people?”
“It’s a bloody good book,” he sighs, sticking his bookmark in and mooching off with Martin.
“Uh, I’ll go too,” adds Petra, following Heidi out, understandably not wishing to breathe in the poisonous atmosphere remaining between the two drunk boys.
For a good while neither you nor Dan say a thing; you’re too busy nursing your glass of Jack, and Dan his rum, while absentmindedly plucking at his acoustic bass. But suddenly Dan looks up, frowns, and speaks with a comically slow slur.
“Oh … shit. I forgot … to tell you. Per … seph … on … ee … she called. Earlier. On the phone.”
“Uh?”
“You know. Per … seph-on-ee. Gloria’s … sister.”
“Who … whose ph-phone?”
“Yours.”
You actually do own a mobile phone, a lumbering, bricklike device which doesn’t fit into any of your pockets, so you tend not to carry it around. You haven’t even looked at it since yesterday evening. You drag yourself up off the sofa and stagger to where you dumped your bag. The conversation proceeds with all the energy of two dying criminals at the end of a Tarantino film.
“D-did she … s-say … anyth-thing?”
“Yeah … to call … back.”
“Nothing … else?”
“Er … no.”
The sheer incongruity of the phone call is what shakes you from your stupor. The last time Persephone Amhurst communicated with you was through a solicitor, when you were curtly instructed not to even attempt making contact with Gloria again, or legal proceedings, restraining orders and all manner of other seriousness would ensue. To now be called directly, on your mobile phone, on the day of your biggest British gig in years, seems alarmingly peculiar to say the very least. You open your bag and extract the stout black gadget. You’re sure there’s a function somewhere for seeing who called last, but it’s hard to locate even at the soberest of times.
“Thanks … Dan …” you splutter, heading out the door.
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
John the security chap still patiently waits where he’s been all evening, now puffing on a cigarette in the rapidly fading light.
“Off out, Lance?”
“Yeah … need to m-make a … phone call.”
“Oooh, dear, you’d better take it easy on the old booze, hadn’t you? Big show coming up and all …”
“Don’t w-worry about m-me,” you drawl. “I was probably more p-pissed than this the last t-time you saw us.”
“Hmm,” John thinks, as you begin to dial Persephone’s number. “That would’ve been Langley Park, ninety-three. I was working on the sound desk, as I recall—”
“Sorry, s’cuse me.”
You duck behind one of the tents while the phone rings. That’s the trouble with being friendly to the staff: then they think they’re your mate, and …
“Hello?”
“Persephone.”
“Ah. It’s you.”
She’s always referred to you as “you,” even for the brief five minutes back in 1985 when you were both making a strained effort to like each other.
“Yes. How … are you?”
“Look,” she snaps. “I’m not going to pretend this is anything other than a message service … Frankly, I’ve no interest in how you are, so I can’t believe you’ve any concern for my well-being. Had a telegram from Rosamund. She’s had a car accident in Russia. She’s recovering but she’s lost the baby. She requested that the family tell you, so that’s what I’m doing.”
She hangs up without waiting for a response.
Which is just as well, really, for it’s another ten minutes before you regain the ability to form a sentence, and this time it has nothing to do with the alcohol.
In the weeks and months that follow, you’ll come to realise that all is not quite as it seems. With her usual blend of stupidity and arrogance, Persephone has managed to both under- and overestimate your relationship with Gloria, and the true details of her crash will eventually emerge. But for now, the multilayered news hits you so hard, it’s like you’ve been kicked. Four times. In the balls, the stomach, the heart and the head. By someone with very strong legs. Just, presumably, as the Amhurst family intended. They could equally have sent someone round to beat you up; but then, they’d hardly consider that a respectable form of terror. You cling onto a guy rope in the darkness and reacquaint the contents of your stomach with the outside world: a deliberately violent action with all the follow-through you can muster. You feel such utter, desperate, rock-bottom loathing for yourself and your stupid, worthless little life that you strongly consider lying down and rolling around in the vomit, soaking your hair, soiling your pants and then impaling yourself with an industrial tent pole. There are only two factors which stop you from doing this. One is that there’s now comparatively less alcohol inside you and, ironically, you’ve started to sober up a bit. The other thing is more complicated, but goes something like this: you created another human life, which brings with it certain responsibilities, none of which you’ve been able to fulfil. Now you believe that life is over, and you suppose the spirit of that life can probably witness your every action, so—put simply—what would it think if it could see you rolling around in your own vomit? Would it be proud of its father? Then you’d have failed it in death as well as life. Years later, you’ll come to recognise this moment as the genesis of the paternal instinct that grew so profoundly over the next decade, but right now all it means is you keep your hair and clothes clean. You’ve also got a show to perform. Although absurd and perverse at this juncture, you suddenly feel a rush of enthusiasm. Yes. This is what I can do. I’ve f*cked up everything else, but I can at least play guitar and sing rather well. Remember that?
You’ll also look back in days to come and speculate that everything would’ve been okay from then on—had Dan not decided to lock the dressing room door.
“Dan, are you in there?”
More knocking.
“Dan! Have you locked this?”
“He closed it five minutes ago,” John the guard tells you. “Didn’t hear him lock it, but there you go, he must have.”
“Have you got another key?”
“No, I’m afraid they don’t give us the keys. The organisers will have a spare, but I’m not sure where you’ll find them right now.”
“Can’t you radio them?” you shout, whacking the door with your fist.
“No, we’re on different circuits. You see—”
“Oh, for f*ck’s sake. Dan! Dan, can you hear me?”
You hear a faint groaning.
“Aw, f*ck it, he’s bloody passed out.”
You stomp along the length of the hut, seeing if you can climb through the window, but the gap is too small. You shout through it instead.
“Dan, open the f*cking door, you dick! We’re bloody playing in twenty minutes!”
Silence.
“Well, this is a right old mess, eh?” chuckles John, lighting a fag.
“We could barge the door down,” you think aloud.
“As I’ve got you here for a moment, Lance, I thought you might be interested to know … I was offered some cash a little while back.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. Fella came up about two hours ago, bloke in one of them striped shirts, offered me twenty quid to let him into your room.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but I told him to stick it, y’see.”
“John,” you assert, grasping him by both his shoulders. “You’ve got to tell me who this guy is! I need to know.”
“I told him to stick it,” John continues, unflinching, “because I’m an honest man, you see, Lance.”
“Good! Great! But—”
“I’m honest, I work hard, and I don’t complain. But what I do ask …”
“Yes?”
“… is that I get treated with a little respect when I’m only doing my job properly.”
You frown at him.
“What are you saying, John?”
“Nice young lady of yours, earlier … I bet she wouldn’t strike a man who was only doing his job properly.”
“What … ?”
“I was off work for two weeks after that … from stress … two weeks, with no pay, and I’ve got mouths to feed, Lance.”
“John, I have no idea what you’re f*cking talking about,” you shout, turning around and hammering on the door again. “Dan!”
“Your blonde-haired tart at the Langley Park gig,” John goes on, his voice rising, “she laid into me when I stopped her entering the sound desk … She insulted me, called me names I won’t even mention, then did this.”
He brandishes a Polaroid of himself with a beaten-up face. It looks pretty bad, but …
“F*ck off, she could never do that to you!”
“Kicked me when I was down, she did.”
“Just shut your mouth, John … you’re talking shit!”
“It’s amazing what someone can do when they’re that jealous … jealous of the good-looker on the video screen you were diddling. I bet that really stung her, knowing she looked like such a freak …”
In that one nanosecond, you decide you can either punch him or break down the dressing room door. Wisely you choose the latter. Dan wakes up from his drunken snooze on the sofa and coughs.
“Whassappenin’?”
“Wake up, you idiot, and don’t lock that f*cking door again.”
You grab your acoustic guitar and two bottles of red wine, and storm straight out again.
“You’ve just lost your f*cking job, John,” you spit, as you pass. “Well done. I’m getting out of this f*cking place.”
But the only safe place left to go is the side of the main stage, now a hive of activity as The Boo Radleys’ gear is wheeled off and your own crew pushes the Magpies’ larger stage set into place. On the road in a strange city, this familiar, almost homely routine conducted by a group of people you trust can usually liven whatever sour spirits you’ve got yourself into, but not today. Today you’re no longer certain what planet you’re on. You settle yourself by the monitor desk, open the wine and tune your acoustic: a ritual you perform before every show, normally helping to keep your feet on the ground, but this evening you’re suspended a hundred feet in the air with acute vertigo. Bob Grant passes, evidently glad to see that you’re at least alive. Stan the roadie passes and tussles your hair. A minute later Doug does the same thing. A nice gesture, but right now you don’t understand what nice is.
“All right, L?” asks Pete, the tubby monitor engineer, as he readies his equipment.
“Yep,” you respond, swigging from one of the bottles. But of course, you’re not. You’re in a galaxy far, far away from all right, sinking back into your previous alcoholic fog.
Gradually the others assemble. You abandoned anything as crap as a group hug weeks ago (in Berlin, actually, when Dan and Craig had a fight before the show), so the interband ceremony that precedes this largest of British comeback gigs is practically non existent. The front-of-house music gets louder (you managed to insist they play the Wilco album), the crowd gets wilder, then … hey. It’s showtime.
“Ready?” grunts Martin.
“Yeah,” you murmur.
And that’s just about all you can clearly remember. You know the first song went okay and that you tried to be funny in the next one, but no one seemed to get the joke. You seem to recall singing an Oasis song, for a laugh, then trying to chuck out some of the audience, but the people you wanted to eject outnumbered those you wanted to stay, which was a little surprising. You drank some more, sang some more, then you spotted that idiot in the red tracksuit down the front and did the “wanker” signal at him. But it all seemed fairly cheerful; a couple of insults, but no more than a Thieving Magpies audience is used to. Then Dan and Martin started to take it all too seriously. What’s the matter with these people? Always f*cking complaining. In those rare moments you sit down to think about it, it really pisses you off that you spent your whole career dragging them along by their manky ponytails, writing them some of the best songs they’d ever had the pleasure of playing—and, of course, made them a shitload of money—but they’ve never been grateful. And Martin, in the end, didn’t even need to admit to the others he wanted to leave the band; he just sat back, happily watching everything collapse as you took the heat. And all you were doing was trying to hold it together. Dan even announced over the microphone (over the bloody microphone!) that you were “being a cock tonight,” when all you were doing was defending them! Oh yeah, and you saw that knobhead security bloke, what’s-his-name … John … also down the front, probably not even working, folding his arms over his f*cking beer belly and pointing at you. So you showed him. If Gloria could punch him, so could you. F*cker, I bet he deserved it that time, too. And then suddenly there were loads of people, all shouting, screaming, arguing, pulling you this way and that … everyone so serious. When all you were really doing was trying to be funny. That was it! But no one was laughing. You looked really hard, all around you, to see who was laughing. But no one was. And that’s when they took you away.