Conditie van muzak

by Michael Moorcock

  “I haven’t had a go yet,” said Jerry mournfully.

  His mother moved to his defence. “Lay off the poor littel sod—it was ’is turn to do ’is act. ’E’s bin waitin’ years fer the chance, an’ you ’ave ter go an’ spoil it!”

  The constable backed away from her. “We didn’t damage the stage, madam.”

  “Pigs,” said Mrs Cornelius with some relish. “Motherfuckers!”

  “It’s all right, Mum,” murmured Jerry.

  “I’m on your side entirely,” Frank was saying to the other constable. “If I had my way I’d ban this sort of thing altogether. I’m a Rate Payer.”

  “Put ’em all up against a wall and shoot ’em,” said the constable with relish, then, as one of the organisers approached, “I’m really sorry about this. We’re just doing our duty.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay now?” said Shirley. Her eyes were worried rather than warm.

  “Fine,” said Jerry, “um…”

  She anticipated him. “Got to go now. See you around. Bye, bye.”

  “Bye, bye,” said Jerry.

  “You were very good,” said Mrs Cornelius. “Wan’e, Kernewl?”

  But Colonel Pyat, a huge, frightened hamster, was already on the other side of the barrier and making for home.

  “I’m a Trader and a Rate Payer,” Frank continued. “I’ve lived here all my life. I remember when this was a quiet, decent neighbourhood.”

  Mrs Cornelius gurgled sceptically. “Wot? Oh, yeah. So fuckin’ quiet yer couldn’t get a bloody taxi ter take yer ’ome. They woz shit scared o’ Nottin’ Dale. They wouldn’t drive yer beyond Pembridge Gardens! An’ the coppers used ter patrol in threes. I remember one year they barricaded the Nottin’ Dale coppers in their own nick and they couldn’t git art till the people let ’em art!” She eyed the constable with fond speculation. “We woz famous in them days,” she said, “for bein’ fierce. They’re all soft nardays—coppers an’ yumans.”

  “Listen,” said the policeman with some heat, “they wanted to send the SPGs in—then you’d ’ave known what for!”

  “Took pity on yer, did they?” said Mrs Cornelius contemptuously. “Ruddy little squirt.”

  “Now, then, madam…” He reddened, seeking support. “Arthur…”

  With a quick, cunning movement, Mrs Cornelius stuck out her varicosed leg. The constable yelped and fell head first into the hole. Mrs Cornelius took her son by the arm. “C’mon—let’s go an’ ’ave a cup a tea. Yer’ll make it yet, Jer—I know yer will.”

  The sleepers and the dope had begun to take effect. Jerry’s eyes were watering. As his mum led him off the stage, he burst into tears.

  AUCHINEK

  Sebastian Auchinek’s expensive white suit thoroughly outshone Jerry’s cheap one. They sat together, side by side, on a long deep tan ottoman, in Auchinek’s elegant, sparsely furnished, Sackville Street office. Big windows admitted cool sunlight as if it were exclusive to the establishment. Auchinek was hatless. Jerry wore a broad-brimmed fedora. “Sam Spade? Right?” said Auchinek pointing at the hat.

  “Philip Marlowe,” Jerry told him. “The Long Goodbye.”

  “Right! Beautiful.” Auchinek returned to his commiserating mood. “But they’re not cheap, are they, Rickenbackers?” He spoke reverently. “£500?”

  “About that,” said Jerry. He had got his guitar from a friend who had done Sound City’s entire stock in 1973, loading two pantechnicons in half an hour on a Sunday morning in July.

  “And,” said Auchinek smiling, “of course it wasn’t insured?”

  “No.”

  “You people!” Auchinek wore a waistcoat of pale blue leather, its edges trimmed with metal studs, a lilac shirt, a yellow cravat. Somehow all he seemed to lack was a green parrot on his shoulder. “So, Jerry! What can I do you for?”

  “I wondered if you could get us some gigs. We did very well at the Westway, until the accident.”

  “Heavy rock?” Auchinek rose sadly and went to his desk. He looked significantly back over his shoulder as he picked up a black plastic box which looked as if it had cost much more than anything in silver. “Heavy rock? It’s not my scene. Solo singers, yes. Orchestras, yes. Boy and girl singing acts, yes—soul trios, quartets, quintets, sextets, septets, octets, yes, yes, yes, yes. Soul, soul, soul, soul—that’s your basic day-to-day demand anywhere in the country or on the Continent, Las Vegas, you name it. Soul isn’t just a popular fad—it’s the genuine commercial music of a decade. Black or white, it makes no difference. Country music, rock-and-roll groups, reggae—nothing compared to soul. Jerry, you haven’t got a bad voice—make it sweeter—get together with some other guys, maybe some gals, and do some harmonies—a good funky bass, a touch of wa-wah, even a taste of fuzz, nobody’s objecting to that. It’s fine, gives it body, texture—do you know how many records I’ve produced myself?—you don’t have to give up your principles, just alter your angle a little. Mainly it’s the songs, see.” He began to sing in a low, lugubrious voice, hunching his shoulders, awkwardly moving his hips. “Baby, baby, baby, you broke my heart in two—now two hearts beat as one, but they’re not having any fun, ’cause both those hearts belong to me! See? Lovely stuff.” He made a cryptic windmilling motion with his arms. It was on the strength of this motion that Jerry, for the first time in his life, had developed racial prejudice while watching Top of the Pops. He had discovered that he hated black people. Then, after another week or so of watching similar acts, he decided that he hated white people, too. Now he was hating Jews. He wondered just how much disharmony Top of the Pops was responsible for. It was surprising what music could do for the racial situation. However, he was desperate enough to continue trying to reason with Auchinek, his only contact in the commercial music business.

  “I can’t do it. But we thought of this idea—Music from the Spheres—astronaut music that’s come from the stars—it’s a good gimmick. We tell the kids it was given to us by space people, see. Like Chariots of the Gods, you know.”

  “Gramophones of the Gods? Jerry, a gimmick’s as good as the thing it’s promoting. Okay—yes, good gimmick—but did the astronauts send us soul music? Maybe they did. You prove it. If the music isn’t soul—if it isn’t what people want to hear—it doesn’t matter how good a gimmick you’ve got. It’s the Number One Rule, Jerry. I’ve told you before.”

  “But that stuff’s just so much Muzak. It’s piped music for supermarkets. People didn’t want to hear The Beatles till they heard them, or Hendrix, or The Who.”

  “They heard them—they liked it—therefore it must have been what they wanted. My point!”

  Jerry accepted the Camel Auchinek offered him. “But mythology, see? Everyone’s into mythology. I was reading this book—The Mythical History of Britain—yeah?”

  “Fabulous…”

  “It reckons we’re all descended from the Trojans…”

  “Trojans? I thought we were all descended from Martians. Maybe Trojans was their word for Martian?”

  “You’re probably right,” said Jerry.

  “So what about the Martians?”

  “An album—the mythical history of England up to the present day.”

  “So?”

  “Couldn’t you interest someone?”

  “Certainly I could interest someone. With my muscle, Jerry, I could interest anyone. Fabulous history of England?—fine—as rock music—the sort you like?—not really—as folk music?—who cares?—as soul? Very good! Good orchestrations, nice lyrics, nice arrangements, easy swinging rhythm—lovely—but King Arthur? A soul opera of King Arthur? Maybe, maybe. You are thinking of King Arthur? Like Wakeman? That’s nice, the Wakeman. Exactly what I’m talking about. But it’s been done. Can it be done again? With a new angle? Well, maybe. But Wakeman isn’t The Miracles, if you see what I mean. A market, I grant you. A good market. But not a really solid market. Not so safe as soul. So what else were you considering? Let’s spell it out, eh? Talk it through. Fine? Trojans? Who’s heard of Tr
ojans, these days?”

  “We could make it Martians, as you suggested—gods as astronauts, the Bermuda Triangle—something up to date. The same stuff—but more modern…”

  “Yeah, but that’s mythology—the Bermuda Triangle is science. You don’t want to get them mixed up, Jerry. There’s too much confusion already in the world today. Still, not to split atoms, eh? Okay. Martians. Bermuda Triangle, Scifi, right? Far out. Okay, the market’s getting big enough to stand it. Super. Fab. So far so good. So we have a Soul Opera about the Bermuda Triangle—”

  “Or Jaws Superstar,” said Jerry wildly.

  “Sharks? Sure, maybe. Giant sharks. Updated Moby Dick, with good music. Why not? We do a film. We all go out to Bermuda for a few weeks. Why not? Sure. Come to me with something on tape, some notes. Good. I’ll listen to it. I’ll take it down to the country with me. If I like it, I’ll sell it. Can I say more?”

  “But I need a new guitar first. If you could lend me the bread…”

  “You still have that Equity card since I got you the film extra work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I can help you earn some money. Una’s new show.”

  “Playing guitar?”

  “They don’t need a rock guitarist. Not another one. A good part. The show’s about Frankenstein, see, and what it means in moral terms today—beautiful songs.” His hands windmilled over one another.

  “But I haven’t had any acting experience.”

  “You don’t need it.”

  “And I can’t sing soul songs.”

  “You don’t have to. You yell. Rock-and-roll experience is perfect for this part. You scream. You jump and up and down. With these teeth in. You get three appearances, maybe more. A night, I mean.”

  “Who am I?”

  “Who are you? You’re the vampire. I should have thought of it before. I apologise. Okay? Want it? The pay’s good. Get your name on the programme. A start in a career. Look at Hair, how many people made it from that! Look at Jesus Christ Superstar? And Godspell?”

  “Oh, blimey,” said Jerry.

  “Contacts. You’ll have a new guitar in no time. A break. Una’ll be delighted.”

  “You hate me, don’t you?” said Jerry.

  “Hate you? What’s hate? I disapprove of you, because you’re a talented boy who doesn’t know what’s good for him. You frustrate me, Jerry. You do. You frustrate me very, very much. So what’s it to be? The vampire? Or back to busking on a borrowed banjo? Down the garbage chute or up the golden escalator?”

  “I’ll try the vampire,” said Jerry.

  PERSSON

  “You were splendid.” Una Persson leaned over a drowsy Catherine and lit Jerry’s cigarette for him. She climbed across their bodies to be on his left. They all lay together in Una’s king-size four-poster. It was early afternoon. “You’re a natural actor.” Una was talking about the movie rushes she had seen earlier that day at the studios. The film was her own first starring rôle (a remake of Camille) and by encouraging Jerry (who played Armand’s friend) she seemed also to be encouraging herself.

  Lying between the two women Jerry was in his element. His emotions were mixed but all pleasant. He felt they were three sisters sharing a delicious conspiracy, that he had two mothers, two concubines, two loyal friends; moreover he became still more cheerful when they ganged up on him, to take the piss out of him, to dress him up, to have their way with him. Perhaps it was their affection for each other which turned him on most, the fact that they were able to relax with him and therefore make him relax in turn. They enjoyed going out together, forming a little exclusive club whose erotic secrets only the three of them would ever know. Depressed, they were able to comfort one another; happy, they were able to infect one another.

  “And you’re better than Garbo.” It was true. “Much better. You’re a bit like her in looks, but your range is greater.”

  Una lay back on her pillows, fingering her breasts as she absorbed his praise.

  “You can out-act anyone, Una.” With a luscious sigh Catherine ran her soft hand down her brother’s chest and stomach. “Ah! I don’t know how I get the work at all! I can’t act for toffee. Still, six weeks in panto’s better than nothing. We start rehearsals next month. It’s hard to get into the Christmas spirit in September, mind you.” She rubbed her own stomach. It rumbled. “Cor, I’m starving. Breakfast time.”

  “It’ll be teatime soon,” said Una. “I’ve been working since six o’clock.”

  “I’ll get some tea, then,” said Catherine agreeably, running her fingers through tangled blonde hair. “Did you pick up the tickets from the agent?”

  “Three one-way Class 1 berths on the Alexander Pushkin sailing next week for New York. We’ll have to fly back.”

  Catherine put her dirty feet on the white carpet, stood up and took her pale brown Janet Reger négligée from the back of the door. “It’ll be nice to see the old house again. And a good time to go.” Like her brother, she shared with Una an enthusiasm for American Gothic wooden houses.

  “Will they let us sleep in the same cabin?” Jerry asked as his sister left. “Do you think?”

  “I’ve arranged it. They think we’re ballet dancers. It’s okay.”

  “That’s the Russians all over. One rule for the ballet dancers and another for everyone else. I wonder what it’ll be like.” Jerry’s Russophilia was only equalled by his romantic love for the United States. He could think of nothing more marvellous than travelling to one place on a ship belonging to the other. He had often remarked on the strong similarities between the two nations and believed this similarity to be the cause of their rivalry.

  Una indicated the print on her wall. It showed the famous eighteenth-century actor John Rich in his rôle of Harlequin. The caption above the print read Harlequin Dr Faustus in the Necromancer and below it was a verse:

  Thank you Genteels, these stunning Claps declare,

  How Wit corporal is yr. darling Care.

  See what it is the crowding Audience draws

  While Wilks no more but Faustus gains Applause.

  “I told them we were putting on a new production,” Una said, “but I didn’t tell them you were playing Columbine.”

  Jerry patted his stomach. With success, he was expanding.

  “I’m not sure I’ll get into the dress. Can’t I be Harlequin or the Pierrot?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not your turn.”

  He giggled as she took him in her arms.

  NYE

  “You’re Noël Coward, if you want to be.” Major Nye stiffened his shoulders. “I can’t say fairer than that. You’ve the figure, now that you’ve lost a few pounds, the voice, the looks—or can have. What d’you say, old chap?”

  It would be Jerry’s first real star part in the West End, but he remained reluctant to begin a new commitment. Una would be back from America soon and Catherine would have returned to the provinces. If he took the rôle it would mean quite probably that they would not be together for several months.

  “I don’t know an awful lot about the thirties,” he said.

  “Twenties, actually, this setting. Bitter Sweet with an all male cast. As he’d have liked it himself. You’re not worried?”

  “Not about that. So it’s Brylcreem and six-inch fag holders, eh?”

  “That’s a bit superficial, old boy, but you’ve got the mood—it’s what the public’s desperate for…”

  Major Nye had become an impresario late in life, with his run of successful nostalgia shows on stage, screen and television. Series like Clogs and Mean Streets, set during the depression in Northern towns, had shown people that things had been worse than they were now and taken their minds off their current troubles, while musical versions of King of the Khyber Rifles, Christina Alberta’s Father, A Child of the Jago and The Prisoner of Zenda were all still running in West End and Broadway productions, as well as in touring companies (Catherine was currently playing Rupert of Hentzau in one of these).

>   “The traditionalists are going to be a bit upset,” Major Nye continued, pausing by a railing and staring out to sea. He had come down to Brighton especially to meet Jerry who was just finishing a run as Harlequin Captain MacHeath in the revived Harlequin Beggar’s Opera which Jerry had himself suggested to Major Nye after Una Persson had given him the idea. The revived full-blooded pantomime was just one more of the major’s successes in England and America. “But we’re used to that by now—and we’re doing more for them than anyone else, even if we do take liberties occasionally. Still, it’s the literary bods do the complaining, not the public, and it’s the public that matters, eh?”

  “Every time,” said Jerry. He waved. Elizabeth Nye, the major’s daughter, who had first interested her father in the stage, was running along the promenade to meet them. She was playing Columbine Polly Peachum to Jerry’s Harlequin. “Hello, Jerry. Hello, Daddy. Is lunch still on?”

  “If you’re interested, my dear.” He looked questioningly at Jerry. “Spot of lunch, then?”

  “Lovely,” said Jerry. “Have you asked Sebastian about this?”

  “No need to bring in agents until the last minute. They only confuse things. I didn’t know you were still with him.”

  “He’s useful,” said Jerry. “Anyway, I feel sorry for him. His musical interests have taken a turn or two for the worse.”

  “He didn’t move with the times,” said Major Nye. “Lived in the present too much, in my view. Couldn’t see that the wind was changing. Of course, I never expected anything like this myself. I started, you know, doing modest little music-hall evenings with amateur performers. Now we’re dragging up every damned traditional entertainment since Garrick’s day—and before. We’ll find we’ve got mass audiences for Noye’s Fludde next season, at this rate.”

  “The eighteenth-century satirists thought the Harlequinade was going to be the death of the theatre.” Jerry had pursued his usual research. “They thought Shakespeare and Jonson were done for—pushed out of business.”