by Tim Thornton
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 fuck. 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 fuck 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 fucking 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 u
nless 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 fucking 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 fuckin’ 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 fucked.”
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.
“Fuck 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 fucking straightforward. We are the headline fucking band, the reason this fucking festival exists, and someone, I don’t know who, I don’t really care who, is fucking with us. I want it nipped in the fucking bud right now, or you get no show from us. You guys—you talk amongst your-fucking-selves and work out what’s going on, whether it’s your security guys having a laugh, or someone slipping them a tenner to fuck with our gear, or someone slipping them a line of fucking charlie to turn a blind eye. Whatever it is, it stops now or we don’t fucking 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 fucking 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 fuck 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 fucking 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 fuck 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?”